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Love-Story Masterpieces 


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LOVE-STOR Y 

MASTERPIECES 


MEREDITH MITCHELL 
STEVENSON HOLMES 


CHOSEN BY 

RALPH A . LYON 

«i 






WILLIAM S. LORD 
EVANSTON 
1902 








THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 
Two Copies Received 

IUN. 3 1902 

Copyright entry 
lYlcUu I (a - I q 
CLASS^ ^XXc. No. 

33097 

COPY B. 


Copyright 

1902 

By William S. Lord 



Give beauty all her right,— 

She’s not to one forme tyed; 

Each shape yeelds faire delight, 

Where her perfections bide. 

Helen, I grant, might pleasing be; 

And Ros’mond was as sweet as shee. 

Some, the quicke eye commends- 
Some, swelling lips and red; 

Pale lookes have many friends, 

Through sacred sweetnesse bred. 

Medowes have flowres that pleasure move, 

Though Roses are the flowres of love. 

Free beauty is not bound 
To one unmoved clime: 

She visits ev’ry ground, 

And favours ev’ry time. 

Let the old loves with mine compare, 

My Sov’raigne is as sweet and fair. 

—Thomas Campion. 













# 




































CONTENTS 


PAGE 

An Idyl of First Love. By George Meredith 13 
A “Dream-Life” Love-Story. By Donald G. 

Mitchell (Ik Marvel).51 

The Sire de Maletroit’s Door. By Robert 

Louis Stevenson.83 

The Autocrat and the Schoolmistress. By 

Oliver Wendell Holmes . . . .139 





An Idyl of First Love 

15 Y 

GEORGE MEREDITH 


9 





NOTE 


“An Idyl of First Love” consists of two chapters 
from George Meredith’s first novel, “The Ordeal of 
Richard Feverel.” These chapters, taken bodily 
from the context, form a complete prose poem, por¬ 
traying “one of the most perfect love scenes in the 
whole range of fiction.” 

“A ‘Dream-Life’ Love-Story,” which, in its way, 
is equally as charming as the preceding story, is 
from “Dream-Life,” by “Ik Marvel.” 



An Idyl of First Love 

BY 

GEORGE MEREDITH 

I 

PRELUDE 

Above green-flashing plunges of a 
weir, and shaken by the thunder below, 
lilies, golden and white, were swaying 
at anchor among the reeds. Meadow¬ 
sweet hung from the banks thick with 
weed and trailing bramble, and there 
also hung a daughter of earth. Her 
face was shaded by a broad straw-hat 
with a flexile brim that left her lips and 
chin in the sun, and sometimes nodding 
sent forth a light of promising eyes. 
Across her shoulders, and behind, 
flowed large loose curls, brown in 

13 


14 Love-Story Masterpieces 

shadow, almost golden where the ray 
touched them. She was simply dressed, 
befitting decency and the season. On a 
closer inspection you might see that her 
lips were stained. This blooming young 
person was regaling on dewberries. 

They grew beneath the bank and the 
water. Apparently she found the fruit 
abundant, for her hand was making 
pretty progress to her mouth. Fastid¬ 
ious youth, which shudders and revolts 
at woman plumping her exquisite pro¬ 
portions on bread-and-butter, and would 
(we must suppose) joyfully have her 
quite scraggy to have her quite poetical, 
can hardly object to dewberries. In¬ 
deed the act of eating them is dainty 
and induces musing. The dewberry is 
a sister to the lotus, and an innocent 
sister. You eat: mouth, eye, and hand 
are occupied, and the undrugged mind 
free to roam. And so it was with the 
damsel who knelt there. The little 


An Idyl of First Love 15 

skylark went up above her, all song, to 
the smooth southern cloud lying along 
the blue: from a dewy copse standing 
dark over her nodding hat, the black¬ 
bird fluted, calling to her with thrice 
mellow note: the kingfisher flashed 
emerald out of green osiers: a bow¬ 
winged heron travelled aloft, seeking 
solitude: a boat slipped towards her, 
containing a dreamy youth, and still 
she plucked the fruit, and ate, and 
mused, as if no fairy prince were invad¬ 
ing her territories, and as if she wished 
not for one, or knew not her wishes. 
Surrounded by the green shaven mead¬ 
ows, the pastoral summer buzz, the 
weir-fall’s thundering white, amid the 
breath and beauty of wild-flowers, she 
was a bit of lovely human life in a 
fair setting: a terrible attraction. The 
Magnetic Youth leaned round to note 
his proximity to the weir-piles, and 
beheld the sweet vision. Stiller and 


16 Love-Story Masterpieces 

stiller grew nature, as at the meeting 
of two electric clouds. Her posture 
was so graceful that, though he was 
making straight for the weir, he dared 
not dip a scull. Just then one most 
enticing dewberry caught her eyes. 
He was floating by unheeded, and saw 
that her hand stretched low, and could 
not gather what it sought. A stroke 
from his right brought him beside her. 
The damsel glanced up dismayed, and 
her whole shape trembled over the 
brink. Richard sprang from his boat 
into the water. Pressing a hand be¬ 
neath her foot, which she had thrust 
against the crumbling wet sides of the 
bank to save herself, he enabled her to 
recover her balance, and gain safe 
earth, whither, emboldened by the in¬ 
cident, touching her finger’s tip, he fol¬ 
lowed her. 


II 


FERDINAND AND MIRANDA 

He had landed on an Island of the 
still-vexed Bermoothes. The world lay 
wrecked behind him: Raynham hung 
in mists, remote, a phantom to the 
vivid reality of this white hand which 
had drawn him thither away thousands 
of leagues in an eye-twinkle. Hark, 
how Ariel sung overhead! What 
splendour in the heavens! What mar¬ 
vels of beauty about his enchanted 
head! And, O you Wonder! Fair 
Flame! by whose light the glories of 
being are now first seen . . . Radiant 
Miranda! Prince Ferdinand is at your 
feet. 

Or is it Adam, his rib taken from his 
side in sleep, and thus transformed, to 
17 


18 Love-Story Masterpieces 

make him behold his Paradise, and 
lose it? . . . 

The youth looked on her with as 
glowing an eye. It was the First 
Woman to him. 

And she—mankind was all Calaban 
to her, saving this one princely youth. 

So to each other said their changing 
eyes in the moment they stood to¬ 
gether; he pale, and she blushing. 

She was indeed sweetly fair, and 
would have been held fair among rival 
damsels. On a magic shore, and to a 
youth educated by a System, strung 
like an arrow drawn to the head, he, it 
might be guessed, could fly fast and far 
with her. The soft rose in her cheeks, 
the clearness of her eyes, bore witness 
to the body’s virtue; and health and 
happy blood were in her bearing. Had 
she stood before Sir Austin among 
rival damsels, that Scientific Humanist, 
for the consummation of his System, 


An Idyl of First Love 


19 


would have thrown her the handker¬ 
chief for his son. The wide summer hat 
nodding over her forehead to her 
brows, seemed to flow with the flowing, 
heavy curls, and those fire-threaded 
mellow curls, only half-curls, waves of 
hair, call them, rippling at the ends, 
went like a sunny red-veined torrent 
down her back almost to her waist: a 
glorious vision to the youth, who em¬ 
braced it as a flower of beauty, and read 
not a feature. There were curious 
features of colour in her face for him 
to have read. Her brows, thick and 
brownish against a soft skin showing 
the action of the blood, met in the bend 
of a bow, extending to the temples long 
and level: you saw that she was fash¬ 
ioned to peruse the sights of earth, and 
by the pliability of her brows, that the 
wonderful creature used her faculty, 
and was not going to be a statue to the 
gazer. Under the dark thick brows an 


20 Love-Story Masterpieces 

arch of lashes shot out, giving a wealth 
of darkness to the full, frank, blue eyes, 
a mystery of meaning—more than brain 
was ever meant to fathom: richer 
henceforth than all mortal wisdom to 
Prince Ferdinand. For when naturp 
turns artist, and produces contrasts of 
colour on a fair face, where is the 
Sage, or what the Oracle, shall match 
the depth of its lightest look? 

Prince Ferdinand was also fair. In 
his slim boating-attire his figure looked 
heroic. His hair, rising from the part¬ 
ing to the right of his forehead, in what 
his admiring Lady Blandish called his 
plume, fell away slanting silkily to the 
temples across the nearly impercepti¬ 
ble upward curve of his brows there 
—felt more than seen, so slight it was— 
and gave to his profile a bold beauty, to 
which his bashful, breathless air was a 
flattering charm. An arrow drawn to 
the head, capable of flying fast and far 


An Idyl of First Love 21 

with her! He leaned a little forward 
to her, drinking her in with all his eyes, 
and young Love has a thousand. Then 
truly the System triumphed, just ere 
it was to fall; and could Sir Austin 
have been content to draw the arrow 
to the head, and let it fly, when it would 
fly, he might have pointed to his son 
again, and said to the world, “Match 
him!” Such keen bliss as the youth 
had in the sight of her, an innocent 
youth alone has powers of soul in him 
to experience. 

If these two were Ferdinand and 
Miranda, Sir Austin was not Prospero, 
and was not present, or their fates 
might have been different. 

So they stood a moment changing 
eyes, and the Miranda spoke, and they 
came down to earth, feeling no less in 
heaven. 

She spoke to thank him for his aid. 
She used quite common simple words; 


22 Love-Story Masterpieces 

and used them, no doubt, to express a 
common, simple meaning; but to him 
she was uttering magic, casting spells, 
and the effect they had on him was 
manifested in the incoherence of his 
replies, which were too foolish to be 
chronicled. 

The couple was again mute. Sud¬ 
denly Miranda, with an exclamation of 
anguish, and innumerable lights and 
shadows playing over her lovely face, 
clapped her hands, crying aloud, “My 
book! my book!” and ran to the bank. 

Prince Ferdinand was at her side. 
“What have you lost?” he said. 

“My book! my book!” she answered, 
her long, delicious curls swinging 
across her shoulders to the stream. 
Then turning to him, divining his rash 
intention, “Oh, no, no! let me entreat 
you not to,” she said. “I do not so 
very much mind losing it.” And in her 
eagerness to restrain him, she uncon- 


An Idyl of First Love 23 

sciously laid her gentle hand upon his 
arm, and took the force of motion out 
of him. 

“Indeed I do not really care for the 
silly book/’ she continued, withdrawing 
her hand quickly, and reddening. 
“Pray do not!” 

The young gentleman had kicked off 
his shoes. No sooner was the spell of 
contact broken, than he jumped in. 
The water was still troubled and dis¬ 
coloured by his introductory adventure, 
and though he ducked his head with 
the spirit of a dabchick, the book was 
missing. A scrap of paper floating 
from the bramble just above the water, 
and looking as if fire had caught its 
edges and it had flown from one ad¬ 
verse element to the other, was all he 
could lay hold of, and he returned to 
land disconsolately to hear Miranda’s 
murmured mixing of thanks and pretty 
expostulations. 


24 Love-Story Masterpieces 

“Let me try again,” he said. 

“No, indeed!” she replied, and used 
the awful threat: “I will run away if 
you do,” which effectively restrained 
him. 

Her eye fell on the fire-stained scrap 
of paper, and brightened, as she cried, 
“There—there! you have what I want. 
It is that. I do not care for the book. 
—No, please! You are not to look at 
it. Give it me.” 

Before her playfully-imperative in¬ 
junction was fairly spoken, Richard had 
glanced at the document, and discov¬ 
ered a Griffin between two wheat 
sheaves: his crest, in silver: and below, 
O wonderment, immense! his own 
handwriting! remnant of his burnt 
Offering! a page of the sacrificed 
Poems! one Blossom preserved from 
the deadly universal blight. 

He handed it to her in silence. She 
took it and put it in her bosom. 


A 7 i Idyl of First Love 25 

Who would have said, have thought, 
that, where all else perished, Odes, 
fluttering bits of broad-winged Epic, 
Idyls, Lines, Stanzas, this one Sonnet 
to the Stars should be miraculously 
reserved for such a starry fate! passing 
beatitude! 

As they walked across the meadow, 
Richard strove to remember the hour, 
and the mood of mind, in which he 
had composed the notable production. 
The stars were invoked, as seeing, and 
foreseeing, all, to tell him where then 
his love reclined, and so forth; Hesper 
was complacent enough to do so, and 
described her in a couplet: 

“Through sunset’s amber see me shining fair, 

As her blue eyes shine through her golden hair.” 

And surely no words could be more 
prophetic. Here were two blue eyes, 
and golden hair; and by some strange 
chance, that appeared like the working 
of a divine finger, she had become the 


26 Love-Story Masterpieces 

possessor of the prophecy, she that was 
to fulfil it! The youth was too charged 
with emotion to speak. Doubtless the 
damsel had less to think of, or had 
some trifling burden on her conscience, 
for she seemed to grow embarrassed. 
At last she drew up her chin to look at 
her companion under the nodding brim 
of her hat (and the action gave her a 
charmingly freakish air), crying, “But 
where are you going to? You are wet 
through. Let me thank you again, and 
pray leave me, and go home, and 
change instantly.” 

“Wet?” replied the magnetic muser, 
with a voice of tender interest, “not 
more than one foot, I hope? I will 
leave you while you dry your stocking 
in the sun.” 

At this she could not withhold a shy 
and lovely laugh. 

“Not I, but you. You know you 
saved me, and would try to get that 


An Idyl of First Love 


27 


silly book for me, and you are dripping 
wet. Are you not very uncomfortable?” 

In all sincerity he assured her that he 
was not. 

“And you really do not feel that you 
are wet?” 

He really did not: it was a fact that 
he spoke truth. 

She pursed her sweet dewberry mouth 
in the most comical way, and her blue 
eyes lightened laughter out of the half- 
closed lids. 

“I cannot help it,” she said, her mouth 
opening, and sounding harmonious 
bells of laughter to his ears. “Pardon 
me, won’t you?” 

His face took the same soft smiling 
curves in admiration of her. 

“Not to feel that you have been in 
the water the very moment after!” she 
musically interjected, seeing she was 
excused. 

“It’s true,” he said; and his own 


28 Love-Story Masterpieces 

gravity then touched him to join a duet 
with her, which made them no longer 
feel strangers, and did the work of a 
month of intimacy. Better than senti¬ 
ment laughter opens the breast to 
love; opens the whole breast to his full 
quiver, instead of a corner here and 
there for a solitary arrow. Hail the 
occasion propitious, O, ye British 
young! and laugh, and treat love as an 
honest God, and dabble not with the 
sentimental rouge. These two laughed, 
and the souls of each cried out to 
other, "It is I,” "It is I ” 

They laughed and forgot the cause 
of their laughter, and the sun dried his 
light river-clothing, and they strolled 
towards the blackbird’s copse, and 
stood near a stile, in sight of the foam 
of the weir, and the many-coloured 
rings of eddies streaming forth from it. 

Richard’s boat, meanwhile, had con¬ 
trived to shoot the weir, and was swing- 


29 




An Idyl of First Love 

ing, bottom upwards, broadside with 
the current down the rapid backwater. 

“Will you let it go?” said the damsel, 
eyeing it curiously. 

“Yes,” he replied, and low, as if he 
spoke in the core of his thought: 
“What do I care for it now?” 

His old life was whirled away with it, 
dead, drowned. His new life was with 
her, alive, divine. 

She flapped low the brim of her hat. 
“You must really not come any far¬ 
ther,” she softly said. 

“And will you go, and not tell me 
who you are?” he asked, growing bold 
as the fears of losing her came across 
him: “And will you not tell me before 
you go,” his faced burned, “how you 
came by that—that paper?” 

She chose to select the easier ques¬ 
tion to reply to: “You ought to know 
me; we have been introduced.” Sweet 
was her winning, off-hand affability. 


30 


Love-Story Masterpieces 


“Then who, in heaven’s name, are 
you? Tell me! I never could have 
forgotten you.” 

“You have, I think,” she said de¬ 
murely. 

“Impossible that we could ever have 
met, and I forget you!” 

She looked up to him quickly. 

“Do you remember Belthorpe?” 

“Belthorpe! Belthorpe!” quoth Rich¬ 
ard, as if he had to touch his brain to 
recollect there was such a place. “Do 
you mean old Blaize’s farm?” 

“Then I am old Blaize’s niece.” She 
tripped him a soft curtsey. 

The magnetized youth gazed at her. 
By what magic was it that this divine 
sweet creature could be allied with that 
old churl! 

“Then what—what is your name?” 
said his mouth, while his eyes added, 
“O wonderful creature! How came 
you to enrich the earth?” 


An Idyl of First Love 31 

“Have you forgot the Desboroughs 
of Dorset, too?” she peered at him 
archly from a side bend of the flapping 
brim. 

“The Desboroughs of Dorset?” A 
light broke in on him. “And have you 
grown to this? That little girl I saw 
there!” 

He drew close to her to read the 
nearest features of the vision. She 
could no more laugh off the piercing 
fervour of his eyes. Her volubility 
fluttered under his deeply wistful look, 
and now neither voice was high, and 
they were mutually constrained. 

‘You see,” she murmured, “we are 
old acquaintances.” 

Richard, with his eyes still intently 
fixed on her, returned: “You are very 
beautiful!” 

The words slipped out. Perfect sim¬ 
plicity is unconsciously audacious. Her 
overpowering beauty struck his heart, 


32 Love-Story Masterpieces 

and like an instrument that is touched 
and answers to the touch, he spoke. 

Miss Desborough made an effort to 
trifle with this terrible directness: but 
his eyes would not be gainsaid, and 
checked her lips. She turned away 
from them, her bosom a little rebel¬ 
lious. Praise so passionately spoken, 
and by one who has been a damsel’s 
first dream, dreamed of nightly many 
long nights, and clothed in the virgin 
silver of her thoughts in bud, praise 
from him is coin the heart cannot reject, 
if it would. She quickened her steps 
to the stile. 

“I have offended you!” said a mor¬ 
tally wounded voice across her shoulder. 

That he should think so were too 
dreadful. 

“Oh, no, no! you would never offend 
me.” She gave him her whole sweet 
face. 

“Then why—why do you leave me?” 


An Idyl of First Love 


33 


“Because,” she hesitated, “I must go.” 

“No. You must not go. Why must 
you go? Do not go.” 

“Indeed, I must,” she said, pulling at 
the obnoxious broad brim of her hat; 
and, interpreting a pause he made for 
his assent to her sensible resolve, shyly 
looking at him, she held her hand out, 
and said, “Good-bye,” as if it were a 
natural thing to say. 

The hand was pure white; white and 
fragrant as the frosted blossom of a 
May night. It was the hand whose 
shadow, cast before, he had last night 
bent his head reverentially above, and 
kissed—resigning himself thereupon 
over to execution for payment of the 
penalty of such daring: by such bliss 
well rewarded. 

He took the hand, and held it; gaz¬ 
ing between her eyes. 

“Good-bye,” she said again, as frankly 
as she could, and at the same time 


34 


Love-Story Masterpieces 


slightly compressing her fingers on 
his in token of adieu. It was a signal 
for his to close firmly upon hers. 

“You will not go?” 

“Pray let me," she pleaded, her sweet 
brows suing in wrinkles. 

“You will not go?” Mechanically he 
drew the white hand nearer his thump¬ 
ing heart. 

“I must,” she faltered piteously. 

“You will not go?” 

“O, yes, yes!” 

“Tell me. Do you wish to go?” 

The question was subtle. A moment 
or two she did not answer, and then 
forswore herself, and said, “Yes.” 

“Do you—do you wish to go?” He 
looked with quivering eyelids under 
hers. 

A fainter, Yes, responded to his pas¬ 
sionate repetition. 

“You wish—wish to leave me?” His 
breath went with the words. 


An Idyl of First Love 


35 


“Indeed, I must.” 

Her hand became a closer prisoner. 

All at once an alarming, delicious 
shudder went through her frame. 
From him to her it coursed, and back 
from her to him. Forward and back 
love’s electric messenger rushed from 
heart to heart, knocking at each, till it 
surged tumultuously against the bars of 
its prison, crying out for its mate. 
They stood trembling in unison, a 
lovely couple under those fair Heavens 
of the morning. 

When he could get his voice, it was, 
“Will you go?” 

But she had none to reply with, and 
could only mutely bend upward her 
gentle wrist. 

“Then, farewell,” he said, and drop¬ 
ping his lips to the soft fair hand, 
kissed it, and hung his head, swinging 
away from her, ready for death. 

Strange, that now she was released 


36 Love-Story Masterpieces 

she should linger by him. Strange, 
that his audacity, instead of the execu¬ 
tioner, brought blushes and timid ten¬ 
derness to his side, and the sweet words, 
“You are not angry with me?” 

“With you, O Beloved!” cried his 
soul. “And you forgive me, Fair Char¬ 
ity?” 

She repeated her words in deeper 
sweetness to his bewildered look; and 
he, inexperienced, possessed by her, 
almost lifeless with the divine new 
emotions she had realized in him, 
could only sigh, and gaze at her won- 
deringly. 

“I think it was rude of me to go with¬ 
out thanking you again,” she said, and 
again she proffered her hand. 

The sweet heaven-bird shivered out 
his song above him. The gracious 
glory of heaven fell upon his soul. He 
touched her hand, not moving his eyes 
from her, nor speaking, and she, with 


An Idyl of First Love 37 

a soft word of farewell, passed across 
the stile, and up the pathway through 
the dewy shades of the copse, and out 
of the arch of the light, away from his 
eyes. 

And away with her went the wild 
enchantment: he looked on barren air. 
But it was no more the world of yester¬ 
day. The marvellous splendours had 
sown seeds in him, ready to spring up 
and bloom at her gaze; and in his bosom 
now the vivid conjuration of her tones, 
her face, her shape, makes them leap 
and illumine him like fitful summer 
lightnings — ghosts of the vanished 
sun. 

There was nothing to tell him that 
he had been making love and declaring 
it with extraordinary rapidity: nor did 
he know it. Soft flushed cheeks! sweet 
mouth! strange sweet brows! eyes of 
softest fire! how could his ripe eyes be¬ 
hold you, and not plead to keep you? 


38 Love-Story Masterpieces 

Nay, how could he let you go? And he 
seriously asks himself that question. 

To-morrow this place will have a 
memory—the river, and the meadow, 
and the white, falling weir: his heart 
will build a temple here; and the sky¬ 
lark will be its high-priest, and the old 
black-bird its glossy-gowned chorister, 
and there will be a sacred repast of 
dewberries. To-day the grass is grass: 
his heart is chased by phantoms, and 
finds rest nowhere. Only when the 
most tender freshness of his flower 
comes across him, does he taste a 
moment’s calm; and no sooner does it 
come than it gives place to keen pangs 
of fear that she may not be his forever. 


Ill 

A DIVERSION PLAYED ON A PENNY 
WHISTLE 

Away with Systems! Away with a 
corrupt World! Let us breathe the air 
of the Enchanted Island. 

Golden lie the meadows: golden run 
the streams: red gold is on the pine- 
stems. The sun is coming down to 
earth, and the fields and the waters 
shout to him golden shouts. He 
comes, and his heralds run before him, 
and touch the leaves of oaks, and 
planes, and beeches lucid green, and the 
pine-stems redder gold; leaving bright¬ 
est foot-prints upon thickly weeded 
banks, where the fox-glove’s last up¬ 
per-bells incline, and bramble-shoots 
wander amid moist rich herbage. The 

39 


40 Love-Story Masterpieces 

plumes of the woodland are alight; 
and beyond them, over the open, ’tis a 
race with the long-thrown shadows; a 
race across the heaths and up the hills, 
till, at the farthest bourne of mounted 
eastern cloud, the heralds of the sun 
lay rosy fingers, and rest. 

Sweet are the shy recesses of the 
woodland. The ray treads softly 
there. A film athwart the pathway 
quivers many-hued against purple 
shade fragrant with warm pines, deep 
moss-beds, feathery ferns. The little 
brown squirrel drops tail, and leaps: 
the inmost bird is startled to a chance 
tuneless note. From silence into 
silence things move. 

Peeps of the revelling splendour 
above and around enliven the con¬ 
scious full heart within. The flaming 
west, the crimson heights, shower their 
glories through voluminous leafage. 
But these are bowers where deep bliss 


An Idyl of First Love 41 

dwells, imperial joy, that owes no fealty 
to yonder glories in which the young 
lamb gambols, and the spirits of men 
are glad. Descend, great Radiance! 
embrace creation with beneficent fire, 
and pass from us! You, and the vice¬ 
regal light that succeeds to you, and all 
heavenly • pageants, are the ministers 
and the slaves of the throbbing content 
within. 

For this is the home of the enchant¬ 
ment. Here, secluded from vexed 
shores, the prince and princess of the 
island meet; here like darkling night¬ 
ingales they sit, and into eyes and ears 
and hands pour endless ever-fresh 
treasures of their souls. 

Roll on, grinding wheels of the 
world: cries of ships going down in a 
calm, groans of a System which will 
not know its rightful hour of exultation, 
complain to the universe. You are not 
heard here. 


42 


Love-Story Masterpieces 


He calls her by her name, Lucy: and 
she, blushing at her great boldness, 
has called him by his, Richard. Those 
two names are the key-notes of the 
wonderful harmonies the angels sing 
aloft. 

“Lucy! my beloved!” 

“O Richard!” 

Out in the world there, on the skirts 
of the woodland, a sheep-boy pipes to 
meditative eve on a penny-whistle. 

Love’s musical instrument is as old, 
and as poor; it has but two stops; and 
yet, you see, the cunning musician does 
thus much with it! 

Other speech they have little; light 
foam playing upon waves of feeling, 
and of feeling compact, that bursts only 
when the sweeping volume is too wild, 
and is no more than their sigh of 
tenderness spoken. 

Perhaps Love played his tune so well 
because their natures had unblunted 


An Idyl of First Love 43 

edges, and were keen for bliss, confid¬ 
ing in it as natural food. To gentlemen 
and ladies, he fine-draws upon the viol, 
ravishingly; or blows into the mellow 
bassoon; or rouses the heroic ardours 
of the trumpet; or, it may be, com¬ 
mands the whole Orchestra for them. 
And they are pleased. He is still the 
cunning musician. They languish, and 
taste ecstasy; but it is, however sono¬ 
rous, an earthly concert. For them the 
spheres move not to two notes. They 
have lost, or forfeited and never known, 
the first super-sensual spring of the 
ripe senses into passion; when they 
carry the soul with them, and have the 
privileges of spirits to walk disem¬ 
bodied, boundlessly to feel. Or one 
has it, and the other is a dead body! 
Ambrosia let them eat, and drink the 
nectar: here sit a couple to whom 
Love’s simple bread and water is a finer 
feast. 


44 Love-Story Masterpieces 

Pipe, happy sheep-boy, Love! Irra¬ 
diated angels, unfold your wings and 
lift your voices! 

They have outflown philosophy. 
Their instinct has shot beyond the ken 
of science. ’Twere made for this 
Eden. 

“And this divine gift was in store for 
me!” 

So runs the internal outcry of each, 
clasping each: it is their recurring 
refrain to the harmonies. How it 
illumined the years gone by, and 
suffused the living Future! 

“You for me: I for you!” 

“We are born for each other!” 

They believe that the angels have 
been busy about them from their cra¬ 
dles. The celestial hosts have worthily 
striven to bring them together. And, 
O victory! O wonder! after toil, and 
pain, and difficulties exceeding, the 
celestial hosts have succeeded! 


An Idyl of First Love 45 

“Here we two sit who are written 
above as one!” 

Pipe, happy Love! pipe on to these 
dear innocents! 

The tide of colour has ebbed from 
the upper-sky. In the west the sea of 
sunken fire draws back; and the stars 
leap forth , and tremble, and retire be¬ 
fore the advancing moon, who slips the 
silver train of cloud from her shoulders, 
and, with her foot upon the pine-tops, 
surveys heaven. 

“Lucy, did you never dream of meet¬ 
ing me?” 

“O Richard! yes; for I remembered 
you.” 

“Lucy! and did you pray that we 
might meet?” 

“I did!” 

Young as when she looked upon the 
lovers in Paradise, the fair Immortal 
journeys onward. Fronting her, it is 
not night but veiled day. Full half the 


46 Love-Story Masterpieces 

sky is flushed. Not darkness^ not day; 
but the nuptials of the two. 

‘My own! my own forever! You are 
pledged to me? Whisper!” 

He hears the delicious music. 

“And you are mine?” 

A soft beam travels to the fern-covert 
under the pine-wood where they sit, 
and for answer he has her eyes: turned 
to him an instant, timidly fluttering 
over the depths of his, and then down¬ 
cast; for through her eyes her soul is 
naked to him. 

“Lucy! my bride! my life!” 

The night-jar spins his dark monot¬ 
ony on the branch of the pine. The 
soft beam travels round them, and 
listens to their hearts. Their lips are 
locked. 

Pipe no more, Love, for a time! Pipe 
as you will you cannot express their 
first kiss; nothing of its sweetness, and 
of the sacredness of it nothing. St. 


An Idyl of First Love 47 

Cecilia up aloft, before the silver 
organ-pipes of Paradise, pressing fin¬ 
gers upon all the notes of which Love 
is but one, from her you may hear it. 

So Love is silent. Out in the world 
there, on the skirts of the woodland, 
the self-satisfied sheep-boy delivers a 
last complacent squint down the length 
of his penny-whistle, and, with a flour¬ 
ish correspondingly wry-faced, he also 
marches into silence, hailed by supper. 
The woods are still. There is heard 
but the night-jar spinning on the pine- 
branch, circled by moonlight. 




\ 








rt 


¥ 








A 44 Dream-Life 9 ’ 
Love-Story 

BY 


DONALD G. MITCHELL 

UK MARVEL) 




A “Dream-Life” Love-Story 

BY 

DONALD G. MITCHELL (iK MARVEL) 

I 

BOY SENTIMENT 

You were all playing together by the 
big swing; (how plainly it swings in 
your memory now!) Madge had the 
seat, and you were famous for running 
under with a long push, which Madge 
liked better than anything else;—well, 
you have half run over the ground 
when, crash! comes the swing, and poor 
Madge with it! You fairly scream as 
you catch her up. But she is not hurt, 
—only a cry of fright, and a little sprain 
of that fairy ankle; and as she brushes 
away the tears and those flaxen curls, 


52 Love-Story Masterpieces 

and breaks into a merry laugh,—half at 
your woe-worn face, and half in vexa¬ 
tion at herself,—and leans her hand 
(such a hand!) upon your shoulder, to 
limp away into the shade, you dream 
your first dream of love. 

But it is only a dream, not at all ac¬ 
knowledged by you; she is three or 
four years your junior,—too young alto¬ 
gether. It is very absurd to talk about 
it. There is nothing to be said of 
Madge, only—Madge! The name does 
it. 

It is rather a pretty name to write. 
You are fond of making capital M’s; 
and sometimes you follow them with a 
capital A. Then you practise a little 
upon a D, and perhaps back it up with 
a G. Of course it is the merest acci¬ 
dent that these letters come together. 
It seems funny to you—very. And as 
a proof that they were made at ran¬ 
dom, you make a T or an R before 


A “Dream-Life" Love-Story 53 

them, and some other quite irrelevant 
letters after it. 

Finally, as a sort of security against 
all suspicion, you cross it out,—cross it 
a great many ways, even holding it up 
to the light to see that there should be 
no air of intention about it. 

. . . You need have no fear, Clarence, 
that your hieroglyphics will be studied 
so closely. Accidental as they are, you 
are very much more interested in them 
than anyone else. 

... It is a common fallacy of this 
dream in most stages of life, that a vast 
number of persons employ their time 
chiefly in spying out its operations. 

Yet Madge cares nothing about you, 
that you know of. Perhaps it is the 
very reason, though you do not suspect 
it then, why you care so much for her. 
At any rate she is a friend of Nelly’s, 
and it is your duty not to dislike her. 
Nelly, too, sweet Nelly, gets an inkling 


54 Love-Story Masterpieces 

of matters,—for sisters are very shrewd 
in suspicions of this sort, shrewder than 
brothers or fathers,—and, like the good, 
kind girl that she is, she wishes to 
humor even your weakness. 

Madge drops into tea quite often: 
Nelly has something in particular to 
show her, two or three times a week. 
Good Nelly! Perhaps she is making 
your troubles all the greater. You 
gather large bunches of grapes for 
Madge—because she is a friend of 
Nelly’s—which she doesn’t want at all, 
and very pretty bouquets, which she 
either drops or pulls to pieces. 

In the presence of your father one 
day you drop some hint about Madge 
in a very careless way,—a way shrewdly 
calculated to lay all suspicion,—at which 
your father laughs. This is odd; it 
makes you wonder if your father was 
ever in love himself. 

You rather think that he has been. 


A “ Dream-Life ” Love-Story 55 

Madge’s father is dead, and her 
mother is poor; and you sometimes 
dream how—whatever your father may 
think or feel—you will some day make a 
large fortune, in some very easy way, 
and build a snug cottage, and have one 
horse for your carriage and one for 
your wife, (not Madge, of course—that 
is absurd,) and a turtle-shell cat for 
your wife’s mother, and a pretty gate 
to the front yard, and plenty of shrub¬ 
bery; and how your wife will come 
dancing down the path to meet you,— 
as the Wife does in Mr. Irving’s 
“Sketch-Book,”—and how she will have 
a harp in the parlor, and will wear 
white dresses with a blue sash. 

. . . Poor Clarence, it never occurs 
to you that even Madge may grow fat, 
and wear check aprons, and snuffy- 
brown dresses of woollen stuff, and twist 
her hair in yellow papers. Oh, no, boy¬ 
hood has no such dreams as that! 


56 Love-Story Masterpieces 

I shall leave you here in the middle 
of your first foray into the world of 
sentiment, with those wicked eyes chas¬ 
ing rainbows over your heart, and 
those little feet walking every day into 
your affections. I shall leave you, be¬ 
fore the affair has ripened into any 
overtures, and while there is only a six¬ 
pence split in halves, and tied about 
your neck and Maggie’s neck, to bind 
your destinies together. 

If I even hinted at any probability of 
your marrying her, you would be very 
likely to dispute me. One knows his 
own feelings, or thinks he does, so 
much better than anyone can tell him. 


II 


MANLY HOPE 

You are at home again; not your own 
home,—that is gone,—but at the home 
of Nelly and of Frank. The city heats 
of summer drive you to the country. 
You ramble, with a little kindling of old 
desires and memories, over the hill¬ 
sides that once bounded your boyish 
vision. Here you netted the wild rab¬ 
bits, as they came out at dusk to feed; 
there, upon that tall chestnut, you 
cruelly maimed your first captive squir¬ 
rel. The old maples are even now 
scarred with the rude cuts you gave 
them in sappy March. 

You sit down upon some height over¬ 
looking the valley where you were 
born; you trace the faint, silvery line 
57 


58 Love-Story Masterpieces 

of river; you detect by the leaning elm 
your old bathing-place upon the Satur¬ 
days of summer. Your eye dwells upon 
some patches of pasture-wood which 
were famous for their nuts. Your ram¬ 
bling and saddened vision roams over 
the houses; it traces the familiar chim¬ 
ney-stacks; it searches out the low- 
lying cottages; it dwells upon the gray 
roof sleeping yonder under the syca¬ 
mores. 

Tears swell in your eye as you gaze; 
you cannot tell whence or why they 
come. Yet they are tears eloquent of 
feeling. They speak of brother—chil¬ 
dren,—of boyish glee,—of the flush of 
young health,—of a mother’s devotion, 
—of the home affections,—of the vani¬ 
ties of life,—of the wasting years,—of 
the Death that must shroud what 
friends remain, as it has shrouded what 
friends have gone,—and possibly of 
some Great Hope, beaming on your 


A “ Dream-Life" Love-Story 59 

seared manhood dimly from the upper 
world. 

Your wealth suffices for all the lux¬ 
uries of life; there is no fear of coming 
want; health beats strong in your 
veins; you have learned to hold a place 
in the world with a man’s strength, and 
a man’s confidence. And yet in the 
view of those sweet scenes which be¬ 
longed to early days, when neither 
strength, confidence, nor wealth were 
yours,—days never to come again,—a 
shade of melancholy broods upon your 
spirit, and covers with its veil all that 
fierce pride which your worldly wis¬ 
dom has wrought. 

You visit again with Frank the coun¬ 
try homestead of his grandfather: he is 
dead; but the old lady still lives; and 
blind Fanny, now drawing towards 
womanhood, wears yet through her 
darkened life the same air of placid 
content, and of sweet trustfulness in 


60 Love-Story Masterpieces 

heaven. The boys, whom you as¬ 
tounded with your stories of books, are 
building up now with steady industry 
the queen cities of our new western 
land. The old clergyman is gone from 
the desk, and from under his sounding- 
board; he sleeps beneath a brown stone 
slab in the churchyard. The stout 
deacon is dead; his wig and his wicked¬ 
ness rest together. The tall chorister 
sings yet; but they now have a bass- 
viol—handled by a new schoolmaster— 
in place of his tuning-fork; and the 
years have sown feeble quavers in his 
voice. 

Once more you meet at the home of 
Nelly the blue-eyed Madge. The six¬ 
pence is all forgotten; you cannot cer¬ 
tainly tell where your half of it may 
now be. Yet she is beautiful, just bud¬ 
ding into the full ripeness of woman¬ 
hood. Her eyes have a quiet, still joy, 
and hope beaming in them, like angels’ 


A ” Dream-Life” Love-Story 61 

looks. Her motions have a native 
grace and freedom that no culture can 
bestow. Her words have a gentle 
earnestness and honesty that could 
never nurture guile. 

You had thought after your gay ex¬ 
periences of the world to meet her 
with a kind condescension, as an old 
friend of Nelly’s. But there is that in 
her eye which forbids all thought of 
condescension. There is that in her 
air which tells of a high womanly dig¬ 
nity, which can only be met on equal 
ground. Your pride is piqued. She 
has known—she must know your his¬ 
tory; but it does not tame her. There 
is no marked and submissive apprecia¬ 
tion of your gifts as a man of the world. 

She meets your happiest compliments 
with a very easy indifference; she re¬ 
ceives your elegant civilities with a 
very assured brow. She neither courts 
your society, nor avoids it. She does 


62 Love-Story Masterpieces 

not seek to provoke any special atten¬ 
tion. And only when your old self 
glows in some casual kindness to Nelly, 
does her look beam with a flush of 
sympathy. 

This look touches you. It makes you 
ponder on the noble heart that lives in 
Madge. It makes you wish it were 
yours. But that is gone. The fervor 
and the honesty of a glowing youth is 
swallowed up in the flash and splendor 
of the world. A half-regret chases 
over you at nightfall, when solitude 
pierces you with the swift dart of gone- 
by memories. But at morning the re¬ 
gret dies in the glitter of ambitious 
purposes. 

The summer months linger; and still 
you linger with them. Madge is often 
with Nelly; and Madge is never less 
than Madge. You venture to point 
your attentions with a little more 
fervor; but she meets the fervor with 



A “ Dream-Life" Love-Story 63 

no glow. She knows too well the habit 
of your life. 

Strange feelings come over you,— 
feelings like half-forgotten memories,— 
mystical, dreamy, doubtful. You have 
seen a hundred faces more brilliant 
than that of Madge; you have pressed 
a hundred jewelled hands that have re¬ 
turned a half-pressure to yours. You 
do not exactly admire; to love you have 
forgotten; you only—linger. 

It is a soft autumn evening, and the 
harvest-moon is red and round over the 
eastern skirt of woods. You are attend¬ 
ing Madge to that little cottage-home 
where lives that gentle and doting 
mother, who in the midst of her coun¬ 
try retirement, cherishes that refined 
delicacy which never comes to a child 
but by inheritance. 

Madge has been passing the day with 
Nelly. Something—it may be the soft 
autumn air, wafting towards you the 


64 


Love-Story Masterpieces 


freshness of young days—moves you to 
speak as you have not ventured to 
speak, as your vanity has not allowed 
you to speak before. 

“You remember, Madge, (you have 
guarded this sole token of boyish inti¬ 
macy,) our split sixpence?” 

“Perfectly;” it is a short word to 
speak, and there is no tremor in her 
tone,—not the slightest. 

“You have it yet?” 

“I dare say I have it somewhere;” 
— no tremor now; she is very com¬ 
posed. 

“That was a happy time;”—very 
great emphasis on the word happy. 

“Very happy;”—no emphasis any¬ 
where. 

“I sometimes wish I might live it over 
again.” 

“Yes?”—inquiringly. 

“There are, after all, no pleasures in 
the world like those.” 


A “ Dream-Life ” Love-Story 65 


“No?”—inquiringly again. 

You thought you had learned to have 
language at command; you never 
thought, after so many years’ schooling 
of the world, that your pliant tongue 
would play you truant. Yet now you 
are silent. 

The moon steals its silvery way into 
the light flakes of cloud, and the air is 
soft as May. The cottage is in sight. 
Again you risk utterance: 

“You must live very happily here.” 

“I have very kind friends;”—the very 
is emphasized. 

“I am sure Nelly loves you very 
much.” 

“Oh, I believe it!”—with great earn¬ 
estness. 

You are at the cottage-door. 

“Good-night, Maggie;”—very feel¬ 
ingly. 

“Good night, Clarence;” — very 
kindly; and she draws her hand coyly, 


66 


Love-Story Masterpieces 


and half tremulously, from your some¬ 
what fevered grasp. 

You stroll away dreamily, watching 
the moon,—running over your frag¬ 
mentary life,—half moody, half pleased, 
half hopeful. 

You come back stealthily, and with 
a heart throbbing with a certain wild 
sense of shame, to watch the light 
gleaming in the cottage. You linger 
in the shadows of the trees until you 
catch a glimpse of her figure gliding 
past the window. You bear the image 
home with you. You are silent on your 
return. You retire early, but you do 
not sleep early. 

... If you were only as you were: if 
it were not too late. If Madge could 
only love you, as you know she will and 
must love one manly heart, there would 
be a world of joy opening before you. 
But it is too late. 

You draw out Nelly to speak of 


A “Dream-Life" Love-Story 67 


Madge: Nelly is very prudent. “Madge 
is a dear girl,” she says. Does Nelly 
even distrust you? It is a sad thing to 
be too much a man of the world. 

You go back again to noisy, ambi¬ 
tious life; you try to drown old mem¬ 
ories in its blaze and its vanities. 
Your lot seems cast beyond all change, 
and you task yourself with its noisy 
fulfillment. But amid the silence and 
the toil of your office-hours, a strange 
desire broods over your spirit,—a desire 
for more of manliness,—that manliness 
which feels itself a protector of loving 
and trustful innocence. 

You look around upon the faces in 
which you have smiled unmeaning 
smiles: there is nothing there to feed 
your dawning desires. You meet with 
those ready to court you by flattering 
your vanity, by retailing the praises of 
what you may do well, by odious famil¬ 
iarity, by brazen proffer of friendship, 


68 Love-Story Masterpieces 

but you see in it all only the emptiness 
and the vanity which you have studied 
to enjoy. 

Sickness comes over you, and binds 
you for weary days and nights,—in 
which life hovers doubtfully, and the 
lips babble secrets that you cherish. It 
is astonishing how disease clips a man 
from the artificialities of the world. 
Lying lonely upon his bed, moaning, 
writhing, suffering, his soul joins on to 
the universe of souls by only natural 
bonds. The factitious ties of wealth, of 
place, of reputation, vanish from the 
bleared eyes; and the earnest heart, 
deep under all, craves only heartiness. 

The old longing of the office silence 
comes back,—not with the proud wish 
only of being a protector, but—of being 
protected. And whatever may be the 
trust in that beneficent Power who 
“chasteneth whom he loveth,” there is 
yet an earnest, human yearning to- 


A “Dream-Life" Love-Story 69 

wards some one, whose love—most, 
and whose duty—least, would call her 
to your side; whose soft hands would 
cool the fever of yours, whose step 
would wake a throb of joy, whose voice 
would tie you to life, and whose pres¬ 
ence would make the worst of Death— 
an Adieu! 

As you gain strength once more, you 
go back to Nelly’s home. Her kind¬ 
ness does not falter; every care and 
attention belong to you there. Again 
your eye rests upon that figure of 
Madge, and upon her face, wearing an 
even gentler expression as she sees you 
sitting pale and feeble by the old 
hearth-stone. She brings flowers—for 
Nelly: you beg Nelly to place them 
upon the little table at your side. It is 
as yet the only taste of the country 
that you can enjoy. You love those 
flowers. 

After a time you grow strong, and 


70 Love-Story Masterpieces 

walk in the fields. You linger until 
nightfall. You pass by the cottage 
where Madge lives. It is your pleas¬ 
antest walk. The trees are greenest 
in that direction; the shadows are soft¬ 
est; the flowers are thickest. 

It is strange—this feeling in you. It 
is not the feeling you had for Laura 
Dalton. It does not even remind of 
that. That was an impulse, but this is 
growth. That was strong, but this is 
strength. You catch sight of her little 
notes to Nelly; you read them over and 
over; you treasure them; you learn 
them by heart. There is something in 
the very writing that touches you. 

You bid her adieu with tones of kind¬ 
ness that tremble,—and that meet a 
half-trembling tone in reply. She is 
very good. 

... If it were not too late! 


Ill 


MANLY LOVE 

And shall pride yield at length? 

. . . Pride!—and what has love to do 
with pride? Let us see how it is. 

Madge is not rich; she is not schooled 
in the arts of the world. You have 
wealth; you are met respectfully by the 
veterans of fashion; you have gained 
perhaps a kind of brilliancy of position. 

Would it then be a condescension to 
love Madge? Dare you ask yourself 
such a question? Do you not know— 
in spite of your worldliness—that the 
man or the woman, who condescends to 
love, never loves in earnest? 

But again Madge is possessed of a 
purity, a delicacy, and a dignity that 
lift her far above you,—that make you 
feel your weakness and your unworthi- 
71 


72 Love-Story Masterpieces 

ness; and it is the deep and the morti¬ 
fying sense of this unworthiness that 
makes you bolster yourself upon your 
pride. You know that you do yourself 
honor in loving such grace and good¬ 
ness; you know that you would be hon¬ 
ored tenfold more than you deserve in 
being loved by so much grace and 
goodness. 

It scarce seems to you possible; it is 
a joy too great to be hoped for; and in 
the doubt of its attainment your old,. 
worldly vanity comes in, and tells you 
to—beware; and to live on in the 
splendor of your dissipation and in the 
lusts of your selfish habit. Yet still 
underneath all there is a deep, low 
voice,—quickened from above,—which 
assures you that you are capable of 
better things; that you are not wholly 
recreant; that a mine of unstarted ten¬ 
derness still lies smouldering in your 
soul. 


A “Dream-Life" Love-Story 73 

And with this sense quickening your 
better nature, you venture the wealth 
of your whole emotional nature upon 
the hope that now blazes on your path. 

. . . You are seated at your desk, 
working with such zeal of labor as your 
ambitious projects never could com¬ 
mand. It is a letter to Margaret Boyne 
that so tasks your love, and makes the 
veins upon your forehead swell with 
the earnestness of the employ. 

. . . “Dear Madge,—May I not call 
you thus, if only in memory of our 
childish affections; and might I dare 
to hope that a riper affection, which 
your character has awakened, may per¬ 
mit me to call you thus—always? 

“If I have not ventured to speak, 
dear Madge, will you not believe that 
the consciousness of my own ill-desert 
has tied my tongue; will you not at 
least give me credit for a little remain¬ 
ing modesty of heart? You know my 


74 Love-Story Masterpieces 

life, and you know my character,— 
what a sad jumble of errors and of mis¬ 
fortunes have belonged to each. You 
know the careless and the vain pur¬ 
poses which have made me recreant to 
the better nature which belonged to 
that sunny childhood, when we lived 
and grew up together. And will you 
not believe me when I say, that your 
grace of character and kindness of 
heart have drawn me back from the 
follies in which I lived, and quickened 
new desires which I thought to be 
wholly dead? Can I indeed hope that 
you will overlook all that has gained 
your secret reproaches, and confide in 
a heart which is made conscious of bet¬ 
ter things by the love you have in¬ 
spired? 

“Ah, Madge, it is not with a vain 
show of words, or with any counterfeit 
of feeling, that I write now; you know 
it is not; you know that my heart is 


A “ Dream-Life' Love-Story 75 

leaning towards you with the freshness 
of its noblest instincts; you know that 
—I love you! 

“Can I, dare I hope, that it is not 
spoken in vain? I had thought in my 
pride never to make such avowal,— 
never again to sue for affection; but 
your gentleness, your modesty, your 
virtues of life and heart have conquered 
me. I am sure you will treat me with 
the generosity of a victor. 

“You know of my weaknesses; I would 
not conceal from you a single one,— 
even to win you. I can offer nothing 
to you which will bear comparison in 
value with what is yours to bestow. I 
can only offer this strong hand of mine 
—to guard you; and this fond heart— 
to love you! 

“Am I rash? Am I extravagant in 
word, or in hope? Forgive it then, 
dear Madge, for the sake of our old 
childish affection; and believe me, when 


76 Love-Story Masterpieces 

I say, that what is here written—is writ¬ 
ten honestly. Adieu.” 

It is with no fervor of boyish passion 
that you fold this letter: it is with the 
trembling hand of eager and earnest 
manhood. They tell you that man is 
not capable of love: so the September 
sun is not capable of warmth! It may 
not, indeed, be so fierce as that of July; 
but it is steadier. It does not force 
great flaunting leaves into breadth and 
succulence, but it matures whole har¬ 
vests of plenty. 

There is a deep and earnest soul 
pervading the reply of Madge that 
makes it sacred; it is full of delicacy, 
and full of hope. Yet it is not final. 
Her heart lies intrenched within the 
ramparts of Duty and of Devotion. It 
is a citadel of strength in the middle of 
the city of her affections. To win the 
way to it, there must be not only earn¬ 
estness of love, but earnestness of life. 


A “ Dream-Life ” Love-Story 77 

Weeks roll by, and other letters pass 
and are answered—a glow of warmth 
beaming on either side. 

You are again at the home of Nelly; 
she is very joyous; she is the confidante 
of Madge. Nelly feels, that with all 
your errors you have enough inner 
goodness to make Madge happy; and 
she feels—doubly—that Madge has 
such excess of goodness as will cover 
your heart with joy. Yet she tells you 
very little. She will give you no full 
assurance of the love of Madge; she 
leaves that for yourself to win. 

She will even tease you in her pleas¬ 
ant way, until hope almost changes to 
despair, and your brow grows pale with 
the dread—that even now your un¬ 
worthiness may condemn you. 

It is summer weather; and you have 
been walking over the hills of home 
with Madge and Nelly. Nelly has 
found some excuse to leave you,— 


78 Love-Story Masterpieces 

glancing at you most teasingly as she 
hurries away. 

You are left sitting with Madge upon 
a bank tufted with blue violets. You 
have been talking of the days of child¬ 
hood, and some word has called up the 
old chain of boyish feeling, and joined 
it to your new hope. 

What you would say crowds too fast 
for utterance; and you abandon it. 
But you take from your pocket that 
little, broken bit of sixpence,—which 
you have found after long search,— 
and without a word, but with a 
look that tells your inmost thought, 
you lay it in the half-opened hand of 
Madge. 

She looks at you with a slight suffu¬ 
sion of color, seems to hesitate a mo¬ 
ment,—raises her other hand, and 
draws from her bosom by a bit of blue 
ribbon a little locket. She touches a 
spring, and there falls beside your 


A u Dream-Life" Love-Story 79 

relique—another, that had once be¬ 
longed to it. 

Hope glows now like the sun. 

. . . “And you have worn this, Mag¬ 
gie?” 

. . . “Always!” 

“Dear Madge!” 

“Dear Clarence!” 

. . . And you pass your arm now, 
unchecked, around that yielding, 
graceful figure, and fold her to your 
bosom with the swift and blessed as¬ 
surance that your fullest and noblest 
dream of love is won. 














The Sire de Maletroif s 
Door 

BY 


ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 




The Sire de Maletroit’s Door 

BY 

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

Denis de Beaulieu was not yet two- 
and-twenty, but he counted himself a 
grown man, and a very accomplished 
cavalier into the bargain Lads were 
early formed in that rough, warfaring 
epoch; and when one had been in a 
pitched battle and a dozen raids, has 
killed one's man in an honourable 
fashion, and knows a thing or two of 
strategy and mankind, a certain swag¬ 
ger in the gait is surely to be pardoned. 
He had put up his horse with due care, 
and supped with due deliberation; and 
then, in a very agreeable frame of 
mind, went out to pay a visit in the 
grey of the evening. It was not a very 
wise proceeding on the young man’s 
83 


84 Love-Story Masterpieces 

part. He would have done better to 
remain beside the fire or go decently 
to bed. For the town was full of the 
troops of Burgundy and England under 
a mixed command; and though Denis 
was there on safe-conduct, his safe-con¬ 
duct was like to serve him little on a 
chance encounter. 

It was September, 1429; the weather 
had fallen sharp; a flighty piping wind, 
laden with showers, beat about the 
township; and the dead leaves ran riot 
along the streets. Here and there a 
window was already lighted up; and 
the noise of men-at-arms making 
merry over supper within, came forth 
in fits and was swallowed up and carried 
away by the wind. The night fell 
swiftly; the flag of England, fluttering 
on the spire-top, grew ever fainter and 
fainter against the flying clouds—a 
black speck like a swallow in the tumul¬ 
tuous, leaden chaos of the sky. As the 


The Sire de MaUtroiis Door 85 

night fell the wind rose, and began to 
hoot under archways and roar amid the 
tree-tops in the valley below the town. 

Denis de Beaulieu walked fast and 
was soon knocking at his friend’s door; 
but though he promised himself to stay 
only a little while and make an early 
return, his welcome was so pleasant, 
and he found so much to delay him, 
that it was already long past midnight 
before he said good-bye upon the 
threshold. The wind had fallen again 
in the meanwhile; the night was as 
black as the grave; not a star, nor a 
glimmer of moonshine, slipped through 
the canopy of cloud. Denis was ill- 
acquainted with the intricate lanes of 
Chateau Landon; even by daylight he 
had found some trouble in picking his 
way; and in this absolute darkness he 
soon lost it altogether. He was certain 
of one thing only—to keep mounting 
the hill; for his friend’s house lay at 


86 Love-Story Masterpieces 

the lower end, or tail, of Chateau Lan- 
don, while the inn was up at the head, 
under the great church spire. With 
this clue to go upon he stumbled and 
groped forward, now breathing more 
freely in open places where there was a 
good slice of sky overhead, now feeling 
along the wall in stifling closes. It is 
an eerie and mysterious position to be 
thus submerged in opaque blackness in 
an almost unknown town. The silence 
is terrifying in its possibilities. The 
touch of cold window bars to the ex¬ 
ploring hand startles the man like the 
touch of a toad; the inequalities of the 
pavement shake his heart into his 
mouth; a piece of denser darkness 
threatens an ambuscade or a chasm in 
the pathway; and where the air is 
brighter, the houses put on strange and 
bewildering appearances, as if to lead 
him farther from his way. For Denis, 
who had to regain his inn without 


The Sire de Matitroit's Door 87 

attracting notice, there was real dan¬ 
ger as well as mere discomfort in the 
walk; and he went warily and boldly 
at once, and at every corner paused to 
make an observation. 

He had been for some time threading 
a lane so narrow that he could touch a 
wall with either hand when it began to 
open out and go sharply downward. 
Plainly this lay no longer in the direc¬ 
tion of his inn; but the hope of a little 
more light tempted him forward to 
reconnoitre. The lane ended in a ter¬ 
race with a bartizan wall, which gave 
an outlook between high houses, as out 
of an embrasure, into the valley lying 
dark and formless several hundred feet 
below. Denis looked down, and could 
discern a few tree tops waving and a 
single speck of brightness where the 
river ran across a weir. The weather 
was clearing up, and the sky had light¬ 
ened, so as to show the outline of the 


88 Love-Story Masterpieces 

heavier clouds and the dark margin of 
the hills. By the uncertain glimmer, 
the house on his left hand should be a 
place of some pretensions; it was sur¬ 
mounted by several pinnacles and tur¬ 
ret-tops; the round stern of a chapel, 
with a fringe of flying buttresses, pro¬ 
jected boldly from the main block; and 
the door was sheltered under a deep 
porch carved with figures and over¬ 
hung by two long gargoyles. The 
windows of the chapel gleamed through 
their intricate tracery with a light as of 
many tapers, and threw out the but¬ 
tresses and the peaked roof in a more 
intense blackness against the sky. It 
was plainly the hotel of some great 
family of the neighbourhood; and as it 
reminded Denis of a town house of his 
own at Bourges, he stood for some time 
gazing up at it and mentally gauging 
the skill of the architects and the con¬ 
sideration of the two families. 


The Sire de Maldtroit's Door 89 

There seemed to be no issue to the 
terrace but the lane by which he had 
reached it; he could only retrace his 
steps, but he had gained some notion 
of his whereabouts, and hoped by this 
means to hit the main thoroughfare 
and speedily regain the inn. He was 
reckoning without that chapter of acci¬ 
dents which was to make this night 
memorable above all others in his 
career; for he had not gone back above 
a hundred yards before he saw a light 
coming to meet him, and heard loud 
voices speaking together in the echoing 
narrows of the lane. It was a party of 
men-at-arms goingthe night round with 
torches. Denis assured himself that 
they had all been making free with the 
wine-bowl, and were in no mood to be 
particular about safe-conducts or the 
niceties of chivalrous war. It was as like 
as not that they would kill him like a 
dog and leave him where he fell. The 


go Love-Story Masterpieces 

situation was inspiriting but nervous. 
Their own torches would conceal him 
from sight, he reflected; and he hoped 
that they would drown the noise of his 
footsteps with their own empty voices. 
If he were but fleet and silent, he might 
evade their notice altogether. 

Unfortunately, as he turned to beat a 
retreat, his foot rolled upon a pebble; 
he fell against the wall with an ejacula¬ 
tion, and his sword rang loudly on the 
stones. Two or three voices de¬ 
manded who went there—some in 
French, some in English; but Denis 
made no reply, and ran the faster down 
the lane. Once upon the terrace he 
paused to look back. They still kept 
calling after him, and just then began 
to double pace in pursuit, with a con¬ 
siderable clank of armour, and great 
tossing of the torchlight to and fro in 
the narrow jaws of the passage. 

Denis cast a look around and darted 


The Sire de MaUtroit's Door 91 

into the porch. There he might escape 
observation, or—if that were too much 
to expect—was in a capital posture 
whether for parley or defense. So 
thinking, he drew his sword and tried 
to set his back against the door. To 
his surprise, it yielded behind his 
weight; and though he turned in a 
moment, continued to swing back on 
oiled and noiseless hinges, until it stood 
wide open on a black interior. When 
things fall out opportunely for the 
person concerned, he is not apt to be 
critical about the how or why, his own 
immediate personal convenience seem¬ 
ing a sufficient reason for the strangest 
oddities and revolutions in our sub¬ 
lunary things; and so Denis, without a 
moment's hesitation, stepped within 
and partly closed the door behind 
him to conceal his place of refuge. 
Nothing was further from his thoughts 
than to close it altogether; but for some 


92 Love-Story Masterpieces 

inexplicable reason—perhaps by a 
spring or a weight—the ponderous mass 
of oak whipped itself out of his fingers 
and clanked to, with a formidable 
rumble and a noise like the falling of 
an automatic bar. 

The round, at that very moment, de¬ 
bouched upon the terrace and pro¬ 
ceeded to summon him with shouts and 
curses. He heard them ferreting in 
the dark corners; the stock of a lance 
even rattled along the outer surface of 
the door behind which, he stood; but 
these gentlemen were in too high a 
humour to be long delayed, and soon 
made off down a corkscrew pathway 
which had escaped Denis’s observa¬ 
tion, and passed out of sight and 
hearing along the battlements of the 
town. 

Denis breathed again. He gave them 
a few minutes’ grace for fear of acci¬ 
dents, and then groped about for some 


The Sire de MaUtroit's Door 93 

means of opening the door and slipping 
forth again. The inner surface was 
quite smooth, not a handle, not a 
moulding, not a projection of any sort. 
He got his finger-nails round the edges 
and pulled, but the mass was immova¬ 
ble. He shook it; it was as firm as a 
rock. Denis de Beaulieu frowned and 
gave vent to a little noiseless whistle. 
What ailed the door? he wondered. 
Why was it open? How came it to 
shut so easily and so effectually after 
him? There was something obscure 
and underhand about all this, that was 
little to the young man’s fancy. It 
looked like a snare; and yet who could 
suppose a snare in such a quiet by¬ 
street and in a house of so prosperous 
and even noble an exterior? And yet 
—snare or no snare, intentionally or 
unintentionally—here he was, prettily 
trapped; and for the life of him he 
could see no way out of it again. The 


94 Love-Story Masterpieces 

darkness began to weigh upon him. 
He gave ear; all was silent without, but 
within and close by^^e seemed to catch 
a faint sighing, a faint sobbing rustle, 
a little stealthy creak—as though many 
persons were at his side, holding them¬ 
selves quite still, and governing even 
their respiration with the extreme of 
slyness. The idea went to his vitals 
with a shock, and he faced about sud¬ 
denly as if to defend his life. Then, 
for the first time, he became aware of 
a light about the level of his eyes and 
at some distance in the interior of the 
house — a vertical thread of light, 
widening towards the bottom, such as 
might escape between two wings of 
arras over a doorway. To see any¬ 
thing was a relief to Denis; it was like 
a piece of solid ground to a man la¬ 
bouring in a morass; his mind seized 
upon it with avidity; and he stood star¬ 
ing at it and trying to piece together 


The Sire de Matitroit's Door 95 

some logical conception of his sur¬ 
roundings. Plainly there was a flight 
of steps ascending from his own level 
to that of this illuminated doorway; 
and indeed he thought he could make 
out another thread of light, as fine as 
a needle and as faint as phosphores¬ 
cence, which might very well be re¬ 
flected along the polished wood of a 
handrail. Since he had begun to sus¬ 
pect that he was not alone, his heart 
had continued to beat with smothering 
violence, and an intolerable desire for 
action of any sort had possessed itself 
of his spirit. He was in deadly peril, 
he believed. What could be more 
natural than to mount the staircase, lift 
the curtain, and confront his difficulty 
at once? At least he would be dealing 
with something tangible; at least he 
would be no longer in the dark. He 
stepped slowly forward with out¬ 
stretched hands, until his foot struck 


g6 Love-Story Masterpieces 

the bottom step; then he rapidly scaled 
the stairs, stood for a moment to com¬ 
pose his expression, lifted the arras, 
and went in. 

He found himself in a large apart¬ 
ment of polished stone. There were 
three doors; one on each of three 
sides; all similarly curtained with tap¬ 
estry. The fourth side was occupied 
by two large windows and a great stone 
chimney-piece, carved with the arms of 
the Maletroits. Denis recognized the 
bearings, and was gratified to find him¬ 
self in such good hands. The room was 
strongly illuminated; but it contained 
little furniture except a heavy table 
and a chair or two, the hearth was 
innocent of fire, and the pavement was 
but sparsely strewn with rushes clearly 
many days old. 

On a high chair beside the chimney, 
and directly facing Denis as he en¬ 
tered, sat a little old gentleman in a 


The Sire de Matitroit's Door 97 

fur tippet. He sat with his legs 
crossed and his hands folded, and a 
cup of spiced wine stood by his elbow 
on a bracket on the wall. His coun¬ 
tenance had a strongly masculine cast; 
not properly human, but such as we see 
in the bull, the goat, or the domestic 
boar; something equivocal and whee¬ 
dling, something greedy, brutal, and 
dangerous. The upper lip was inor¬ 
dinately full, as though swollen by a 
blow or a toothache; and the smile, the 
peaked eyebrows, and the small, strong 
eyes were quaintly and almost com¬ 
ically evil in expression. Beautiful 
white hair hung straight all round his 
head, like a saint’s, and fell in a single 
curl upon the tippet. His beard and 
moustache were the pink of venerable 
sweetness. Age, probably in conse¬ 
quence of inordinate precautions, had 
left no mark upon his hands; and the 
Maletroit hand was famous. It would 


98 Love-Story Masterpieces 

be difficult to imagine anything at once 
so fleshy and so delicate in design; the 
taper, sensual fingers were like those of 
one of Leonardo’s women; the fork of 
the thumb made a dimpled protuberance 
when closed; the nails were perfectly 
shaped, and of a dead, surprising 
whiteness. It rendered his aspect ten¬ 
fold more redoubtable, that a man with 
hands like these should keep them 
devoutly folded like a virgin martyr— 
that a man with so intent and start¬ 
ling an expression of face should 
sit patiently on his seat and contem¬ 
plate people with an unwinking stare, 
like a god, or a god’s statue. His 
quiescence seemed ironical and 
treacherous, it fitted so poorly with his 
looks. 

Such was Alain, Sire de Maletroit. 

Denis and he looked silently at each 
other for a second or two. 

“Pray step in,” said the Sire de 


The Sire de Maldtroit's Door 99 

Maletroit. “I have been expecting you 
all the evening.” 

He had not risen, but he accom¬ 
panied his words with a smile and a 
slight but courteous inclination of the 
head. Partly from the smile, partly 
from the strange musical murmur with 
which the Sire prefaced his observa¬ 
tion, Denis felt a strong shudder of 
disgust go through his marrow. And 
what with disgust and honest confusion 
of mind he could scarcely get words 
together in reply. 

“I fear,” he said, “that this is a double 
accident. I am not the person you 
suppose me. It seems you were look¬ 
ing for a visit; but for my part, noth¬ 
ing was further from my thoughts— 
nothing could be more contrary to my 
wishes—than this intrusion.” 

“Well, well,” replied the old gentle¬ 
man indulgently, “here you are, which 
is the main point. Seat yourself, my 

L.ofC. 


ioo Love-Story Masterpieces 

friend, and put yourself entirely at your 
ease. We shall arrange our little 
affairs presently.” 

Denis perceived that the matter was 
still complicated with some misconcep¬ 
tion, and he hastened to continue his 
explanations. 

“Your door . . .” he began. 

“About my door?” asked the other, 
raising his peaked eyebrows. “A little 
piece of ingenuity.” And he shrugged 
his shoulders. “A hospitable fancy! 
By your own account, you were not 
desirous of making my acquaintance. 
We old people look for such reluctance 
now and then; when it touches our 
honour, we cast about until we find 
some way of overcoming it. You arrive 
uninvited, but believe me, very wel¬ 
come.” 

“You persist in error, sir,” said Denis. 
“There can be no question between you 
and me. I am a stranger in this coun- 


The Sire de MaUtwit's Door ioi 

tryside. My name is Denis, damoiseau 
de Beaulieu. If you see me in your 
house, it is only-” 

“My young friend,” interrupted the 
other, “you will permit me to have my 
own ideas on that subject. They prob¬ 
ably differ from yours at the present 
moment,” he added with a leer, “but 
time will show which of us is in the 
right.” 

Denis was convinced he had to do 
with a lunatic. He seated himself with 
a shrug, content to wait the upshot; 
and a pause ensued, during which he 
thought he could distinguish a hurried 
gabbling as of prayer from behind the 
arras immediately opposite him. Some¬ 
times there seemed to be but one per¬ 
son engaged, sometimes two; and the 
vehemence of the voice, low as it was, 
seemed to indicate either great haste 
or an agony of spirit. It occurred to 
him that this piece of tapestry covered 


102 Love-Story Masterpieces 

the entrance to the chapel he had 
noticed from without. 

The old gentleman meanwhile sur¬ 
veyed Denis from head to foot with a 
smile, and from time to time emitted 
little noises like a bird or a mouse, 
which seemed to indicate a high de¬ 
gree of satisfaction. This state of mat¬ 
ters became rapidly insupportable; and 
Denis, to put an end to it, remarked 
politely that the wind had gone down. 

The old gentleman fell into a fit of 
silent laughter, so prolonged and vio¬ 
lent that he became quite red in the 
face. Denis got upon his feet at once, 
and put on his hat with a flourish. 

“Sir,” he said, “if you are in your 
wits, you have affronted me grossly. 
If you are out of them, I flatter myself 
I can find better employment for my 
brains than to talk to lunatics. My 
conscience is clear; you have refused 
to hear my explanations; and now there 


The Sire de MaUtroit's Door 103 

is no power under God will make me 
stay here any longer; and if I cannot 
make my way out in a more decent 
fashion, I will hack your door to 
pieces with my sword.” 

The Sire de Maletroit raised his right 
hand and wagged it at Denis with the 
fore and little fingers extended. 

“My dear nephew,” he said, “sit 
down.” 

“Nephew!” retorted Denis, “you lie 
in your throat;” and he snapped his 
fingers in his face. 

“Sit down, you rogue!” cried the old 
gentleman, in a sudden, harsh voice, 
like the barking of a dog. “Do you 
fancy,” he went on, “that when I had 
made my little contrivance for the door 
I had stopped short with that? If you 
prefer to be bound hand and foot till 
your bones ache, rise and try to go 
away. If you choose to remain a free 
young buck, agreeably conversing with 


104 Love-Story Masterpieces 

an old gentleman — why, sit where 
you are in peace, and God be with 
you.” 

“Do you mean I am a prisoner?” de¬ 
manded Denis. 

“I state the facts,” replied the other. 
“I would rather leave the conclusion to 
yourself.” 

Denis sat down again. Externally 
he managed to keep pretty calm, but 
within, he was now boiling with anger, 
now chilled with apprehension. He no 
longer felt convinced that he was deal¬ 
ing with a madman. And if the old 
gentleman was sane, what, in God’s 
name, had he to look for? What 
absurd or tragical adventure had be¬ 
fallen him? What countenance was he 
to assume? 

While he was thus unpleasantly re¬ 
flecting, the arras that overhung the 
chapel door was raised and a tall priest 
in his robes came forth and, giving a 


The Sire de MaUtroit's Door 105 

long, keen stare at Denis, said some¬ 
thing in an undertone to the Sire de 
Maletroit. 

“She is in a better frame of spirit?” 
asked the latter. 

“She is more resigned, messire,” re¬ 
plied the priest. 

“Now the Lord help her, she is hard 
to please!” sneered the old gentleman. 
“A likely stripling—not ill-born—and 
of her own choosing, too? Why, what 
more would the jade have?” 

“The situation is not usual for a 
young damsel,” said the other, “and 
somewhat trying to her blushes.” 

“She should have thought of that 
before she began the dance! It was 
none of my choosing, God knows that: 
but since she is in it, by our lady, she 
shall carry it to the end.” And then 
addressing Denis, “Monsieur de Beau¬ 
lieu,” he asked, “may I present you to 
my niece? She has been waiting your 


106 Love-Story Masterpieces 

arrival, I may say, with even greater 
impatience than myself.” 

Denis had resigned himself with a 
good grace—all he desired was to know 
the worst of it as speedily as possible; 
so he rose at once, and bowed in ac¬ 
quiescence. The Sire de Maletroit fol¬ 
lowed his example and limped, with 
the assistance of the chaplain’s arm, 
towards the chapel-door. The priest 
pulled aside the arras, and all three 
entered. The building had considera¬ 
ble architectural pretensions. A light 
groining sprang from six stout columns, 
and hung down in two rich pendants 
from the centre of the vault. The 
place terminated behind the altar in a 
round end, embossed and honeycombed 
with a superfluity of ornament in relief, 
and pierced by many little windows 
shaped like stars, trefoils, or wheels. 
These windows were imperfectly glazed, 
so that the night air circulated freely in 


The Sire de MaUtroit's Door 107 

the chapel. The tapers, of which there 
must have been half a hundred burning 
on the altar, were unmercifully blown 
about; and the light went through 
many different phases of brilliancy and 
semi-eclipse. On the steps in front of 
the altar knelt a young girl richly at¬ 
tired as a bride. A chill settled over 
Denis as he observed her costume; he 
fought with desperate energy against 
the conclusion that was being thrust 
upon his mind; it could not—it should 
not—be as he feared. 

“Blanche,” said the Sire, in his most 
flute-like tones, “I have brought a 
friend to see you, my little girl; turn 
round and give him your pretty hand. 
It is good to be devout; but it is neces¬ 
sary to be polite, my niece.” 

The girl rose to her feet and turned 
towards the new comers. She moved 
all of a piece; and shame and exhaus¬ 
tion were expressed in every line of her 


108 Love-Story Masterpieces 

fresh young body; and she held her 
head down and kept her eyes upon the 
pavement, as she came slowly forward. 
In the course of her advance, her eyes 
fell upon Denis de Beaulieu’s feet—feet 
of which he was justly vain, be it re¬ 
marked, and wore in the most elegant 
accoutrement even while travelling. 
She paused—started, as if his yellow 
boots had conveyed some shocking 
meaning—and glanced suddenly up 
into the wearer’s countenance. Their 
eyes met; shame gave place to horror 
and terror in her looks; the blood left 
her lips; with a piercing scream she 
covered her face with her hands and 
sank upon the chapel floor. 

“That is not the man!” she cried. 
“My uncle, that is not the man!” 

The Sire de Maletroit chirped agree¬ 
ably. “Of course not,” he said, “I ex¬ 
pected as much. It was so unfortunate 
you could not remember his name.” 


The Sire de Malttroit's Door iog 

“Indeed,” she cried, “I have never 
seen this person till this moment—I 
have never so much as set eyes upon 
him—I never wish to see him again. 
Sir,” she said, turning to Denis, “if you 
are a gentleman, you will bear me out. 
Have I ever seen you—have you ever 
seen me—before this accursed hour?” 

“To speak for myself, I have never 
had that pleasure,” answered the young 
man. “This is the first time, messire, 
that I have met with your engaging 
niece.” 

The old gentleman shrugged his 
shoulders. 

“I am distressed to hear it,” he said. 
“But it is never too late to begin. I 
had little more acquaintance with my 
own late lady ere I married her; which 
proves,” he added, with a grimace, 
“that these impromptu marriages may 
often produce an excellent understand¬ 
ing in the long run. As the bride- 


no Love-Story Masterpieces 

groom is to have a voice in the matter, 
I will give him two hours to make up 
for lost time before we proceed with 
the ceremony/’ And he turned towards 
the door, followed by the clergyman. 

The girl was on her feet in a moment. 
“My uncle, you cannot be in earnest,” 
she said. “I declare before God I will 
stab myself rather than be forced on 
that young man. The heart rises at 
it; God forbids such marriages; you 
dishonour your white hair. Oh, my 
uncle, pity me! There is not a woman 
in all the world but would prefer death 
to such a nuptial. Is it possible,” she 
added, faltering—“is it possible that 
you do not believe me—that you will 
think this”—and she pointed at Denis 
with a tremour of anger and contempt— 
“that you still think this to be the man?” 

“Frankly,” said the old gentleman, 
pausing on the threshold, “I do. But 
let me explain to you once for all, 


The Sire de Matttroit's Door 111 

Blanche de Maletroit, my way of think¬ 
ing about this affair. When you took 
it into your head to dishonour my fam¬ 
ily and the name that I have borne, in 
peace and war, for more than three¬ 
score years, you forfeited, not only the 
right to question my designs, but that 
of looking me in the face. If your 
father had been alive, he would have 
spat on you and turned you out of 
doors. His was the hand of iron. You 
may bless your God you have only to 
deal with the hand of velvet, mademoi¬ 
selle. It was my duty to get you mar¬ 
ried without delay. Out of pure 
good-will, I have tried to find your own 
gallant for you. And I believe I have 
succeeded. But before God and all the 
holy angels, Blanche de Maletroit, if I 
have not, I care not one jack-straw. So 
let me recommend you to be polite to our 
young friend; for upon my word, your 
next groom may be less appetizing.” 


112 Love-Story Masterpieces 

And with that he went out, with the 
chaplain at his heels; and the arras fell 
behind the pair. 

The girl turned upon Denis with 
flashing eyes. 

“And what, sir,” she demanded, “may 
be the meaning of all this?” 

“God knows,” returned Denis, gloom¬ 
ily. “I am a prisoner in this house, 
which seems full of mad people. More 
I know not; and nothing do I under¬ 
stand.” 

“And pray how came you here?” she 
asked. 

He told her as briefly as he could. 
“For the rest,” he added, “perhaps you 
will follow my example, and tell me 
the answer to all these riddles, and 
what, in God’s name, is like to be the 
end of it.” 

She stood silent for a little, and he 
could see her lips tremble and her tear¬ 
less eyes burn with a feverish lustre. 


The Sire de MaUtroif s Door 113 

Then she pressed her forehead in both 
hands. 

“Alas, how my head aches!” she said, 
wearily—“to say nothing of my poor 
heart! But it is due you to know my 
story, unmaidenly as it must seem. I 
am called Blanche de Maletroit; I have 
been without father or mother for—oh! 
for as long as I can recollect, and in¬ 
deed I have been most unhappy all my 
life. Three months ago a young cap¬ 
tain began to stand near me every day 
in church. I could see that I pleased 
him; I am much to blame, but I was so 
glad that anyone should love me; and 
when he passed me a letter, I took it 
horrfe with me and read it with great 
pleasure. Since that time he has written 
many. He was so anxious to speak 
with me, poor fellow! and kept asking 
me to leave the door open some even¬ 
ing that we might have two words upon 
the stair. For he knew how much my 


114 Love-Story Masterpieces 

uncle trusted me.” She gave some¬ 
thing like a sob at that, and it was a 
moment before she could go on. “My 
uncle is a hard man, but he is very 
shrewd,” she said at last. “He has per¬ 
formed many feats in war, and was a 
great person at court, and much trusted 
by Queen Isabeau in old days. How 
he came to suspect me I cannot tell; 
but it is hard to keep anything from his 
knowledge; and this morning, as we 
came from mass, he took my hand into 
his, forced it open, and read my little 
billet, walking by my side all the while. 
When he finished, he gave it back to 
me with great politeness. It contained 
another request to have the door left 
open; and this has been the ruin of us 
all. My uncle kept me strictly in my 
room until evening, and then ordered 
me to dress myself as you see me—a 
hard mockery for a young girl, do 
you not think so? I suppose, when he 


The Sire de MaUtroit's Door 115 

could not prevail with me to tell the 
young captain’s name, he must have 
laid a trap for him; into which, alas! 
you have fallen in the anger of God. 
I looked for much confusion; for how 
could I tell whether he was willing to 
take me for his wife on these sharp 
terms? He might have been trifling 
with me from the first; or I might have 
made myself too cheap in his eyes. 
But truly I had not looked for such a 
shameful punishment as this! I could 
not think that God would let a girl be 
so disgraced before a young man. And 
now I tell you all; and I can scarcely 
hope that you will not despise me.” 

Denis made her a respectful inclina¬ 
tion. 

“Madam,” he said, “you have hon¬ 
oured me by your confidence. It 
remains for me to prove that I am not 
unworthy of the honour. Is Messire de 
Maletroit at hand?” 


116 Love-Story Masterpieces 

“I believe he is writing in the salle 
without,” she answered. 

“May I lead you thither, madam?” 
asked Denis, offering his hand with his 
most courtly bearing. 

She accepted it; and the pair passed 
out of the chapel, Blanche in a very 
drooping and shamefast condition, but 
Denis strutting and ruffling in the con¬ 
sciousness of a mission, and the boyish 
certainty of accomplishing it with hon¬ 
our. 

The Sire de Maletroit rose to meet 
them with an ironical obeisance. 

“Sir,” said Denis, with the grandest 
possible air, “I believe I am to have 
some say in the matter of this marriage; 
and let me tell you at once, I will be no 
party to forcing the inclination of this 
young lady. Had it been freely offered 
to me, I should have been proud to ac¬ 
cept her hand, for I perceive she is as 
good as she is beautiful; but as things 


The Sire de Matttroit's Door 117 

are, I have now the honour, messire, 
of refusing.” 

Blanche looked at him with gratitude 
in her eyes; but the old gentleman only 
smiled and smiled, until his smile grew 
positively sickening to Denis. 

“I am afraid,” he said, “Monsieur de 
Beaulieu, that you do not perfectly 
understand the choice I have offered 
you. Follow me, I beseech you, to 
this window.” And he led the way to 
one of the large windows which stood 
open on the night. “You observe,” he 
went on, “there is an iron ring in the 
upper masonry, and reeved through 
that, a very efficacious rope. Now, 
mark my words: if you should find your 
disinclination to my niece’s person in¬ 
surmountable, I shall have you hanged 
out of this window before sunrise. I 
shall only proceed to such an extremity 
with the greatest regret, you may 
believe me. For it is not at all your 


ii8 Love-Story Masterpieces 

death that I desire, but my niece’s 
establishment in life. At the same 
time, it must come to that if you prove 
obstinate. Your family, Monsieur de 
Beaulieu, is very well in its way; but if 
you sprang from Charlemagne, you 
should not refuse the hand of a Male- 
troit with impunity—not if she had been 
as common as the Paris road—not if 
she were as hideous as the gargoyle 
over my door. Neither my niece nor 
you, nor my own private feelings, move 
me at all in this matter. The honour 
of my house has been compromised; I 
believe you to be the guilty person, at 
least you are now in the secret; and you 
can hardly wonder if I request you to 
wipe out the stain. If you will not, 
your blood be on your own head! It 
will be no great satisfaction to me to 
have your interesting relics kicking 
their heels in the breeze below my win¬ 
dows, but half a loaf is better than no 


The Sire de MaUtroit's Door 119 

bread, and if I cannot cure the dishon¬ 
our, I shall at least stop the scandal.” 

There was a pause. 

“I believe there are other ways of 
settling such imbroglios among gentle¬ 
men,” said Denis. “You wear a sword, 
and I hear you have used it with dis¬ 
tinction.” 

The Sire de Maletroit made a signal 
to the chaplain, who crossed the room 
with long, silent strides and raised the 
arras over the third of the three doors. 
It was only a moment before he let it 
fall again; but Denis had time to see 
a dusky passage full of armed men. 

“When I was a little younger I should 
have been delighted to honour you, 
Monsieur de Beaulieu,” said Sire 
Alain; “but I am now too old. Faith¬ 
ful retainers are the sinews of age, and 
I must employ the strength I have. 
This is one of the hardest things to 
swallow as a man grows up in years; 


120 Love-Story Masterpieces 

but with a little patience, even this 
becomes habitual. You and the lady 
seem to prefer the salle for what re¬ 
mains of your two hours; and as I have 
no desire to cross your preference, I 
shall resign it to your use with all the 
pleasure of the world. No haste!” he 
added, holding up his hand, as he saw a 
dangerous look come into Denis de 
Beaulieu’s face. “If your mind revolt 
against hanging, it will be time enough 
two hours hence to throw yourself out 
of the window or upon the pikes of my 
retainers. Two hours of life are always 
two hours. A great many things may 
turn up in even as little a while as that. 
And besides, if I understand her ap¬ 
pearance, my niece has something to 
say to you. You will not disfigure your 
last hours by want of politeness to a 
lady?” 

Denis looked at Blanche, and she 
made him an imploring gesture. 


The Sire de MaUtroit's Door 121 

It is likely that the old gentleman 
was hugely pleased at this symptom of 
an understanding; for he smiled on 
both, and added sweetly: “If you will 
give me your word of honour, Monsieur 
de Beaulieu, to await my return at the 
end of two hours before attempting 
anything desperate, I shall withdraw 
my retainers, and let you speak in 
greater privacy with mademoiselle.” 

Denis again glanced at the girl, who 
seemed to beseech him to agree. 

“I give you my word of honour,” he 
said. 

Messire de Maletroit bowed, and pro¬ 
ceeded to limp about the apartment, 
clearing his throat the while with that 
odd musical chirp which had already 
grown so irritating in the ears of Denis 
de Beaulieu. He first possessed him¬ 
self of some papers which lay upon the 
table; then he went to the mouth of 
the passage and appeared to give an 


122 Love-Story Masterpieces 


order to the men behind the arras; and 
lastly he hobbled out through the door 
by which Denis had come in, turning 
upon the threshold to address a last 
smiling bow to the young couple, and 
followed by the chaplain with a hand- 
lamp. 

No sooner were they alone than 
Blanche advanced towards Denis with 
her hands extended. Her face was 
flushed and excited, and her eyes shone 
with tears. 

“You shall not die!” she cried, “you 
shall marry me after all.” 

“You seem to think, madam,” replied 
Denis, “that I stand much in fear of 
death.” 

“Oh, no, no,” she said, “I see you are 
no poltroon. It is for my own sake—I 
could not bear to have you slain for 
such a scruple.” 

“I am afraid,” returned Denis, “that 
you underrate the difficulty, madam. 


The Sire de MaUtroit's Door 123 

What you may be too generous to re¬ 
fuse, I may be too proud to accept. In 
a moment of noble feeling towards me, 
you forget what you perhaps owe to 
others.” 

He had the decency to keep his eyes 
on the floor as he said this, and after 
he had finished, so as not to spy upon 
her confusion. She stood silent for a 
moment, then walked suddenly away, 
and falling on her uncle’s chair, fairly 
burst out sobbing. Denis was in the 
acme of embarrassment. He looked 
round, as if to seek for inspiration, and 
seeing a stool, plumped down upon it 
for something to do. There he sat 
playing with the guard of his rapier, 
and wishing himself dead a thousand 
times over, and buried in the nastiest 
kitchen-heap in France. His eyes 
wandered round the apartment, but 
found nothing to arrest them. There 
were such wide spaces between the 


124 Love-Story Masterpieces 

furniture, the light fell so badly and 
cheerlessly over all, the dark outside 
air looked in so coldly through the 
windows, that he thought he had never 
seen a church so vast, nor a tomb so 
melancholy. The regular sobs of 
Blanche de Maletroit measured out the 
time like the ticking of a clock. He 
read the device upon the shield over 
and over again, until his eyes became 
obscured; he stared into shadowy cor¬ 
ners until he imagined they were 
swarming with horrible animals; and 
every now and again he awoke with a 
start, to remember that his last two 
hours were running, and death was on 
the march. 

Oftener and oftener, as the time went 
on, did his glance settle on the girl her¬ 
self. Her face was bowed forward and 
covered with her hands, and she was 
shaken at intervals by the convulsive 
hiccup of grief. Even thus she was not 


The Sire de MaDtroif s Door 125 

an unpleasant object to dwell upon, so 
plump and yet so fine, with a warm 
brown skin, and the most beautiful 
hair, Denis thought, in the whole 
world of womankind. Her hands were 
like her uncle’s: but they were more in 
place at the end of her young arms, and 
looked infinitely soft and caressing. 
He remembered how her blue eyes had 
shone upon him, full of anger, pity, and 
innocence. And the more he dwelt 
on her perfections, the uglier death 
looked, and the more deeply was he 
smitten with penitence at her continued 
tears. Now he felt that no man could 
have the courage to leave a world which 
contained so beautiful a creature; and 
now he would have given forty minutes 
of his last hour to have unsaid his cruel 
speech. 

Suddenly a hoarse and ragged peal 
of cockcrow rose to their ears from the 
dark valley below the windows. And 


126 Love-Story Masterpieces 

this shattering noise in the silence of 
all around was like a light in a dark 
place, and shook them both out of their 
reflections. 

“Alas, can I do nothing to help you?” 
she said, looking up. 

“Madam,” replied Denis, with a fine 
irrelevancy, “if I have said anything to 
wound you, believe me, it was for your 
own sake and not for mine.” 

She thanked him with a tearful look. 

“I feel your position cruelly,” he went 
on. “The world has been bitter hard 
on you. Your uncle is a disgrace to 
mankind. Believe me, madam, there 
is no young gentleman in all France 
but would be glad of my opportunity, to 
die in doing you a momentary service.” 

“I know already that you can be very 
brave and generous,” she answered. 
“What I want to know is whether I can 
serve you—now or afterwards,” she 
added with a quaver. 


The Sire de MaUtroit's Door 127 

“Most certainly,” he answered with 
a smile. “Let me sit beside you as if I 
were a friend, instead of a foolish in¬ 
truder; try to forget how awkwardly we 
are placed to one another; make my 
last moments go pleasantly; and you 
will do me the chief service possible.” 

“You are very gallant,” she added, 
with a yet deeper sadness . . . “very 
gallant . . . and it somehow pains me. 
But draw nearer, if you please; and if 
you find anything to say to me, you will 
at least make certain of a very friendly 
listener. Ah! Monsieur de Beaulieu,” 
she broke forth—“ah, Monsieur de 
Beaulieu, how can I look you in the 
face?” And she fell to weeping again 
with a renewed effusion. 

“Madam,” said Denis, taking her 
hand in both of his, “reflect on the little 
time I have before me, and the great 
bitterness into which I am cast by the 
sight of your distress. Spare me, in my 


128 Love-Story Masterpieces 

last moments, the spectacle of what I 
cannot cure even with the sacrifice of 
my life.” 

“I am very selfish,” answered Blanche. 
“I will be braver, Monsieur de Beaulieu, 
for your sake. But think if I can do 
you no kindness in the future—if you 
have no friends to whom I could carry 
your adieux. Charge me as heavily 
as you can; every burden will lighten, 
by so little, the invaluable gratitude I 
owe you. Put it in my power to do 
something more for you than weep.” 

“My mother is married again, and 
has a young family to care for. My 
brother Guichard will inherit my fiefs; 
and if I am not in error, that will con¬ 
tent him amply for my death. Life is 
a little vapour that passeth away, as we 
are told by those in holy orders. When 
a man is in a fair way and sees all life 
open in front of him, he seems to him¬ 
self to make a very important figure in 


The Sire de Malttroit's Door 129 

the world. His horse whinnies to him; 
the trumpets blow and the girls look 
out of window as he rides into town 
before his company; he receives many 
assurances of trust and regard—some¬ 
times by express in a letter—sometimes 
face to face, with persons of conse¬ 
quence falling on his neck. It is not 
wonderful if his head is turned for a 
time. But once he is dead, were he as 
brave as Hercules or as wise as Solo¬ 
mon, he is soon forgotten. It is not 
ten years since my father fell, with 
many other knights around him, in a 
very fierce encounter, and I do not 
think that any one of them, nor so 
much as the name of the fight, is now 
remembered. No, no, madam, the 
nearer you come to it, you see that 
death is a dark and dusty corner, 
where a man gets into his tomb and has 
the door shut after him till the judg¬ 
ment day. I have few friends just 


130 Love-Story Masterpieces 

now, and once I am dead I shall have 
none." 

“Ah, Monsieur de Beaulieu!” she ex¬ 
claimed, “you forget Blanche de Male- 
troit.” 

“You have a sweet nature, madam, 
and you are pleased to estimate a little 
service far beyond its worth.” 

“It is not that,” she answered. “You 
mistake me if you think I am easily 
touched by my own concerns. I say 
so, because you are the noblest man I 
have ever met; because I recognize in 
you a spirit‘that would have made even 
a common person famous in the land.” 

“And yet here I die in a mousetrap— 
with no more noise about it than my 
own squeaking,” answered he. 

A look of pain crossed her face, and 
she was silent for a little while. Then 
a light came into her eyes, and with a 
smile she spoke again. 

“I cannot have my champion think 


The Sire de MaUtroit's Door 131 

meanly of himself. Anyone who gives 
his life for another will be met in Par¬ 
adise by all the heralds and angels of 
the Lord God. And you have no such 
cause to hang your head. For .. . . 
Pray, do you think me beautiful?” she 
asked, with a deep flush. 

“Indeed, madam, I do,” he said. 

“I am glad of that,” she answered 
heartily. “Do you think there are 
many men in France who have been 
asked in marriage by a beautiful 
maiden—with her own lips—and who 
have refused her to her face? I know 
you men would half despise such a 
triumph; but believe me, we women 
know more of what is precious in love. 
There is nothing that should set a person 
higher in his own esteem; and we wom¬ 
en would prize nothing more dearly.” 

“You are very good,” he said; “but 
you cannot make me forget that I was 
asked in pity and not for love.” 


132 Love-Story Masterpieces 

“I am not so sure of that,” she re¬ 
plied, holding down her head. “Hear 
me to an end, Monsieur de Beaulieu. I 
know how you must despise me; I feel 
you are right to do so; I am too poor a 
creature to occupy one thought of your 
mind, although, alas! you must die for 
me this morning. But when I asked 
you to marry me, indeed, and indeed, 
it was because I respected and admired 
you, and loved you with my whole soul, 
from the very moment that you took 
my part against my uncle. If you had 
.seen yourself, and how noble you 
looked, you would pity rather than 
despise me. And now,” she went on, 
hurriedly checking him with her hand, 
“although I have laid aside all reserve 
and told you so much, remember that 
I know your sentiments towards me 
already. I would not, believe me, being 
nobly born, weary you with importuni¬ 
ties into consent. I, too, have a pride 


The Sire de MaUtroit's Door 133 

of my own: and I declare before the 
holy mother of God, if you should now 
go back from your word already given, 
I would no more marry you than I 
would marry my uncle’s groom.” 

Denis smiled a little bitterly. 

“It is a small love,” he said, “that 
shies at a little pride.” 

She made no answer, although she 
probably had her own thoughts. 

“Come hither to the window,” he said 
with a sigh. “Here is the dawn.” 

And indeed the dawn was already 
beginning. The hollow of the sky was 
full of essential daylight, colourless and 
clean; and the valley underneath was 
flooded with a grey reflection. A few 
thin vapours clung in the coves of the 
forest or lay along the winding course 
of the river. The scene disengaged a 
surprising effect of stillness, which was 
hardly interrupted when the cocks be¬ 
gan once more to crow among the 


134 Love-Story Masterpieces 

steadings. Perhaps the same fellow 
who had made so horrid a clangour in 
the darkness not half an hour before, 
now sent up the merriest cheer to greet 
the coming day. A little wind went 
bustling and eddying among the tree- 
tops underneath the windows. And 
still the daylight kept flooding insensi¬ 
bly out of the east, which was soon to 
grow incandescent and cast up that 
red-hot cannon-ball, the rising sun. 

Denis looked out over all this with a 
bit of a shiver. He had taken her 
hand, and retained it in his almost un¬ 
consciously. 

“Has the day begun already?” she 
said; and then, illogically enough: “the 
night has been so long! Alas! what 
shall we say to my uncle when he re¬ 
turns?” 

“What you will,” said Denis, and he 
pressed her fingers in his. 

She was silent. 


The Sire de Maldtroit's Door 135 

“Blanche,” he said with a swift, un¬ 
certain, passionate utterance, “you have 
seen whether I fear death. You must 
know well enough that I would as 
gladly leap out of that window into the 
empty air, as to lay a finger on you 
without your free and full consent. But 
if you care for me at all do not let me 
lose my life in a misapprehension; for 
I love you better than the whole world; 
and though I will die for you blithely, 
it would be like all the joys of Paradise 
to live on and spend my life in your 
service.” 

As he stopped speaking, a bell began 
to ring loudly in the interior of the 
house; and a clatter of armour in the 
corridor showed that the retainers were 
returning to their post, and the two 
hours were at an end. 

“After all that you have heard?” she 
whispered, leaning towards him with 
her lips and eyes. 


136 Love-Story Masterpieces 


“I have heard nothing,” he replied. 

“The captain’s name was Florimond 
de Champdivers,” she said in his ear. 

“I did not hear it,” he answered, 
taking her supple body in his arms, and 
covered her wet face with kisses. 

A melodious chirping was audible 
behind, followed by a beautiful chuckle, 
and the voice of Messire de Maletroit 
wished his new nephew a good morn¬ 
ing. 


The Autocrat and 
the Schoolmistress 

BY 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



The Autocrat and the School¬ 
mistress 

BY 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

I 

MY LAST WALK WITH THE 
SCHOOLMISTRESS 

I can’t say just how many walks she 
and I had taken together before this 
one. I found the effect of going out 
every morning was decidedly favorable 
on her health. Two pleasing dimples, 
the places for which were just marked 
when she came, played, shadowy, in her 
freshening cheeks when she smiled and 
nodded good-morning to me from the 
schoolhouse-steps. 

139 


140 Love-Story Masterpieces 

I am afraid I did the greater part of 
the talking. At any rate, if I should 
try to report all that I said during the 
first half-dozen walks we took together, 
I fear that I might receive a gentle 
hint from my friends the publishers, 
that a separate volume, at my own risk 
and expense, would be the proper 
method of bringing them before the 
public. 

-1 would have a woman as true as 

Death. At the first real lie which 
works from the heart outward, she 
should be tenderly chloroformed into a 
better world, where she can have an 
angel for a governess, and feed on 
strange fruits which will make her all 
over again, even to her bones and mar¬ 
row.—Whether gifted with the accident 
of beauty or not, she should have been 
moulded in the rose-red clay of Love, 
before the breath of life made a mov¬ 
ing mortal of her. Love-capacity is a 


Autocrat and Schoolmistress ^ 141 

congenital endowment; and I think, 
after a while, one gets to know the 
warm-hued natures it belongs to from 
the pretty pipe-clay counterfeits of it. 
—Proud she may be, in the sense of 
respecting herself; but pride, in the 
sense of contemning others less gifted 
than herself, deserves the two lowest 
circles of a vulgar woman’s Inferno, 
where the punishments are Small-pox 
and Bankruptcy.—She who nips off the 
end of a brittle courtesy, as one breaks 
the tip of an icicle, to bestow upon 
those whom she ought cordially and 
kindly to recognize, proclaims the fact 
that she comes not merely of low 
blood, but of bad blood. Conscious¬ 
ness of unquestioned position makes 
people gracious in proper measure to 
all; but if a woman puts on airs with 
her real equals, she has something 
about herself or her family she is 
ashamed of, or ought to be. Middle, 


142 Love-Story Masterpieces 

and more than middle-aged people, who 
know family histories, generally see 
through it. An official of standing was 
rude to me once. Oh, that is the 
maternal grandfather,—said a wise old 
friend to me,—he was a boor.—Better 
too few words, from the woman we 
love, than too many: while she is silent, 
Nature is working for her; while she 
talks, she is working for herself.—Love 
is sparingly soluble in the words of 
men; therefore they speak much of it; 
but one syllable of woman’s speech can 
dissolve more of it than a man’s heart 
can hold. 

-Whether I said any or all of 

these things to the schoolmistress, or 
not,—whether I stole them out of Lord 
Bacon,—whether I cribbed them from 
Balzac,—whether I dipped them from 
the ocean of Tupperian wisdom,—or 
whether I have just found them in my 
head, laid there by that solemn fowl, 


Autocrat and Schoolmistress 143 

Experience, (who, according to my ob¬ 
servation, cackles oftener than she 
drops real live eggs,) I cannot say. 
Wise men have said more foolish 
things,—and foolish men, I don’t doubt, 
have said as wise things. Anyhow, the 
schoolmistress and I had pleasant walks 
and long talks, all of which I do not 
feel bound to report. 

-You are a stranger to me, 

Ma’am,—I don’t doubt you would like 
to know all I said to the schoolmistress. 
—I shan’t do it;—I had rather get the 
publishers to return the money you 
have invested in this. Besides, I have 
forgotten a good deal of it. I shall tell 
only what I like of what I remember. 

-My idea was, in the first place, to 

search out the picturesque spots which 
the city affords a sight of, to those who 
have eyes. I know a good many, and 
it was a pleasure to look at them in 
company with my young friend. There 


144 Love-Story Masterpieces 

were the shrubs and flowers in the 
Franklin-Place front-yards or borders; 
Commerce is just putting his granite 
foot upon them. Then there are cer¬ 
tain small seraglio-gardens, into which 
one can get a peep through the crevices 
of high fences,—one in Myrtle Street, 
or backing on it,—here and there one at 
the North and South Ends. Then the 
great elms in Essex Street. Then the 
stately horse-chestnuts in that vacant 
lot in Chambers Street, which hold 
their outspread hands over your head, 
(as I said in my poem the other day,) 
and look as if they were whispering, 
“May grace, mercy, and peace be with 
you!”—and the rest of that benediction. 
Nay,there are certain patches of ground, 
which, having lain neglected for a time, 
Nature, who always has her pockets 
full of seeds, and holes in all her 
pockets, has covered with hungry 
plebeian growths, which fight for life 


Autocrat and Schoolmistress 145 

with each other, until some of them 
get broad-leaved and succulent, and 
you have a coarse vegetable tapestry 
which Raphael would not have dis¬ 
dained to spread over the foreground 
of his masterpiece. The Professor pre¬ 
tends that he found such a one in 
Charles Street, which, in its dare¬ 
devil impudence of rough-and-tumble 
vegetation, beat the pretty-behaved 
flowerbeds of the Public Garden as 
ignominiously as a group of young 
tatterdemalions playing pitch-and-toss 
beats a row of Sunday-school boys with 
their teacher at their head. 

But then the Professor has one of his 
burrows in that region, and puts every¬ 
thing in high colors relating to it. 

That is his way about everything.- 1 

hold any man cheap,—he said,—of 
whom nothing stronger can be uttered 

than that all his geese are swans.- 

How is that, Professor?—said I;—I 


146 Love-Story Masterpieces 

should have set you down for one of 

that sort.-Sir,—said he,—I am proud 

to say, that Nature has so far enriched 
me, that I cannot own so much as a 
duck without seeing in it as pretty a 
swan as ever swam the basin in the 
garden of Luxembourg. And the Pro¬ 
fessor showed the whites of his eyes 
devoutly, like one returning thanks 
after a dinner of many courses. 

I don’t know anything sweeter than 
this leaking in of Nature through all 
the cracks in the walls and floors of 
cities. You heap up a million tons of 
hewn rocks on a square mile or two of 
earth which was green once. The 
trees look down from the hill-sides and 
ask each other, as they stand on tip¬ 
toe,—“What are these people about?” 
And the small herbs at their feet look 
up and whisper back,—“We will go 
and see.” So the small herbs pack 
themselves up in the least possible 


Autocrat and Schoolmistress 147 

bundles, and wait until the wind steals 
to them at night and whispers,—“Come 
with me.” Then they go softly with it 
into the great city,—one to a cleft in 
the pavement, one to a spout on the 
roof, one to a seam in the marbles over 
a rich gentleman's bones, and one to 
the grave without a stone where noth¬ 
ing but a man is buried,—and there 
they grow, looking down on the gener¬ 
ations of men from mouldy roofs, look¬ 
ing up from between the less-trodden 
pavements, looking out through iron 
cemetery-railings. Listen to them, 
when there is only a light breath stir¬ 
ring, and you will hear them saying to 
each other, — “Wait awhile!” The 
words run along the telegraph of those 
narrow green lines that border the 
roads leading from the city, until they 
reach the slope of the hills, and the 
trees repeat in low murmurs to each 
other,—“Wait awhile!” By-and-by the 


148 Love-Story Masterpieces 

flow of life in the streets ebbs, and the 
old leafy inhabitants — the smaller 
tribes always in front—saunter in, one 
by one very careless seemingly, but 
very tenacious, until they swarm so 
that the great stones gape from each 
other with the crowding of their roots, 
and the feldspar begins to be picked 
out of the granite to find them food. 
At last the trees take up their solemn 
line of march, and never rest until they 
have encamped in the market-place. 
Wait long enough and you will find an 
old doting oak hugging a huge worn- 
block in its yellow underground arms; 
that was the corner-stone of the State- 
House. Oh, so patient she is, this im¬ 
perturbable Nature! 

-Let us cry!- 

But all this has nothing to do with 
my walks and talks with the school¬ 
mistress. I did not say that I would 
not tell you something about them. 


Autocrat and Schoolmistress 149 

Let me alone, and I shall talk to you 
more than I ought to, probably. We 
never tell our secrets to people that 
pump for them. 

Books we talked about, and educa¬ 
tion. It was her duty to know some¬ 
thing of these, and of course she did. 
Perhaps I was somewhat more learned 
than she, but I found that the differ¬ 
ence between her reading and mine was 
like that of a man’s and a woman’s 
dusting a library. The man flaps 
about with a bunch of feathers; the 
woman goes to work softly with a 
cloth. She does not raise half the dust, 
nor fill her own eyes and mouth with it, 
—but she goes into all the corners, and 
attends to the leaves as much as the 
covers.— Books are the negative pic¬ 
tures of thought, and the more sensi¬ 
tive the mind that receives their im¬ 
ages, the more nicely the finest lines 
are reproduced. A woman, (of the right 


150 Love-Story Masterpieces 

kind,) reading after a man, follows 
him as Ruth followed the reapers of 
Boaz, and her gleanings are often the 
finest of the wheat. 

But it was in talking of Life that we 
came most nearly together. I thought 
I knew something about that,—that I 
could speak or write about it somewhat 
to the purpose. 

To take up this fluid earthly being of 
ours, as a sponge sucks up water,—to be 
steeped and soaked in its realities as a 
hide fills its pores lying seven years in 
a tan-pit,—to have winnowed every 
wave of it as a mill-wheel works up the 
stream that runs through the flume 
upon its float boards,—to have curled 
up in the keenest spasms and flattened 
out in the laxest languors of this 
breathing-sickness, which keeps certain 
parcels of matter uneasy for three or 
four score years,—to have fought all 
the devils and clasped all the angels of 


Autocrat and Schoolmistress 151 

its delirium,—and then, just at the 
point when the white-hot passions have 
cooled down to cherry-red, plunge our 
experience into the ice-cold stream of 
some human language or other, one 
might think would end in a rhapsody 
with something of spring and temper 
in it. All this I thought my power and 
province. 

The schoolmistress had tried life, 
too. Once in awhile one meets with a 
single soul greater than all the living 
pageant that passes before it. As the 
pale astronomer sits in his study with 
sunken eyes and thin fingers, and 
weighs Uranus or Neptune as in a 
balance, so there are meek, slight 
women who have weighed all that this 
planetary life can offer, and hold it like 
a bauble in the palm of their slender 
hands. This was one of them. For¬ 
tune had left her, sorrow had baptized 
her; the routine of labor and the lone- 


152 Love-Story Masterpieces 

liness of almost friendless city-life were 
before her. Yet, as I looked upon her 
tranquil face, gradually regaining a 
cheerfulness that was often sprightly, 
as she became interested in the various 
matters we talked about and places we 
visited, I saw that eye and lip and 
every shifting lineament were made for 
love,—unconscious of their sweet office 
as yet, and meeting the cold aspect of 
Duty with the natural graces which 
were meant for the reward of nothing 
less than the Great Passion. 

-1 never spoke one word of love 

to the schoolmistress in the course of 
these pleasant walks. It seemed to me 
that we talked of everything but love 
on that particular morning. There 
was, perhaps, a little more timidity and 
hesitancy on my part than I have com¬ 
monly shown among our people at the 
boarding-house. In fact, I considered 
myself the master at the breakfast- 


Autocrat and Schoolmistress 153 

table; but, somehow, I could not com¬ 
mand myself just then so well as usual. 
The truth is, I had secured a passage to 
Liverpool in the steamer which was to 
leave at noon,—with the condition, 
however, of being released in case cir¬ 
cumstances occurred to detain me. 
The schoolmistress knew nothing about 
all this, of course, as yet. 

It was on the Common that we were 
walking. The mall y or boulevard of 
our Common, you know, has various 
branches leading from it in different 
directions. One of these runs down¬ 
ward from opposite Joy Street south¬ 
ward across the whole length of the 
Common to Boylston Street. We 
called it the long path, and were fond 
of it. 

I felt very weak indeed (though of a 
tolerably robust habit) as we came op¬ 
posite the head of this path on that 
morning. I think I tried to speak 


154 Love-Story Masterpieces 


twice without making myself distinctly 
audible. At last I got out the ques¬ 
tion,-will you take the long path 

with me?-Certainly, — said the 

schoolmistress,—with much pleasure. 

-Think,—I said,—before you answer ; 

if you take the long path with me 
now, I shall interpret it that we are to 

part no more!-The schoolmistress 

stepped back with a sudden movement, 
as if an arrow had struck her. 

One of the long granite blocks used 
as seats was hard by,—the one you may 

still see close by the Gingko-tree.- 

Pray, sit down,—I said.-No, no,— 

she answered, softly,—I will walk the 
long path with you! 

-The old gentleman who sits op¬ 
posite met us walking, arm in arm, 
about the middle of the long path, and 
said, very charmingly,—“Good morn¬ 
ing, my dears!” 



II 

THE LONG PATH 

Yes, that was my last walk with the 
schoolmistress. It happened to be the 
end of a term; and before the next 
began, a very nice young woman, who 
had been her assistant, was announced 
as her successor, and she was provided 
for elsewhere. So it was no longer 
the schoolmistress that I walked with, 

but-Let us not be in unseemly haste. 

I shall call her the schoolmistress still; 
some of you love her under that name. 

-When it became known among 

the boarders that two of their number 
had joined hands to walk down the 
long path of life side by side, there 
was, as you may suppose, no small 
sensation. I confess I pitied our land- 
155 


156 Love-Story Masterpieces 

lady. It took her all of a suddin’—she 
said. Had not known that we was 
keepin’ company, and never mistrusted 
anything partic’lar. Ma'am was right 
to better herself. Didn’t look very 
rugged to take care of a femily, but 
could get hired haalp, she calc’lated.— 
The great maternal instinct came 
crowding up in her soul just then, and 
her eyes wandered until they settled on 
her daughter. 

-No, poor, dear woman,—that 

could not have been. But I am drop¬ 
ping one of my internal tears for you, 
with this pleasant smile on my face all 
the time. 

The great mystery of God’s provi¬ 
dence is the permitted crushing out of 
flowering instincts. Life is maintained 
by the respiration of oxygen and of 
sentiments. In the long catalogue of 
scientific cruelties there is hardly any¬ 
thing quite so painful to think of as 


Autocrat and Schoolmistress 157 

that experiment of putting an animal 
under the bell of an air-pump and 
exhausting the air from it. [I never 
saw the accursed trick performed. 
Laus Deo /] There comes a time when 
the souls of human beings, women, per¬ 
haps, more even than men, begin to 
faint for the atmosphere of the affec¬ 
tions they were made to breathe. Then 
it is that Society places its transparent 
bell-glass over the young woman who 
is to be the subject of one of its fatal 
experiments. The element by which 
only the heart lives is sucked out of her 
crystalline prison. Watch her through 
its transparent walls;—her bosom is 
heaving; but it is in a vacuum. Death 
is no riddle, compared to this. I re¬ 
member a poor girl’s story in the “Book 
of Martyrs.” The “dry-pan and the 
gradual fire” were the images that 
frightened her most. How many have 
withered and wasted under as slow a 


158 Love-Story Masterpieces 

torment in the walls of that larger 
Inquisition which we call Civiliza¬ 
tion! 

Yes, my surface-thought laughs at 
you, you foolish, plain, overdressed, 
mincing, cheaply-organized, self-satu¬ 
rated young person, whoever you may 
be, now reading this,—little thinking 
you are what I describe, and in blissful 
unconsciousness that you are destined 
to the lingering asphyxia of soul which 
is the lot of such multitudes worthier 
than yourself. But it is only my sur¬ 
face-thought which laughs. For that 
great procession of the unloved, who 
not only wear the crown of thorns, but 
must hide it under the locks of brown 
or gray,—under the snowy cap, under 
the chilling turban,—hide it even from 
themselves,—perhaps never know they 
wear it, though it kills them,—there is 
no depth of tenderness in my nature 
that Pity has not sounded. Some- 


Autocrat and Schoolmistress 159 

where—somewhere,—love is in store 
for them,—the universe must not be 
allowed to fool them so cruelly. What 
infinite pathos in the small, half-uncon¬ 
scious artifices by which unattractive 
young persons seek to recommend 
themselves to the favor of those 
towards whom our dear sisters, the 
unloved, like the rest, are impelled 
by their God-given instincts! 

Read what the singing-women—one 
to ten thousand of the suffering women 
—tell us, and think of the griefs that 
die unspoken! Nature is in earnest 
when she makes a woman; and there 
are women enough lying in the next 
churchyard with very commonplace 
blue slate-stones at their head and feet, 
for whom it was just as true that “all 
sounds of life assumed one tone of 
love,” as for Letitia Landon, of whom 
Elizabeth Browning said it; but she 
could give words to her grief, and they 


160 Love-Story Masterpieces 


could not.—Will you hear a few stanzas 
of mine? 


THE VOICELESS 

We count the broken lyres that rest 
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,— 
But o’er their silent sister’s breast 
The wild flowers who will stoop to number? 

A few can touch the magic string, 

And noisy Fame is proud to win them;— 

Alas for those that never sing, 

But die with all their music in them! 

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone 

Whose song has told their hearts’ sad story,— 
Weep for the voiceless, who have known 
The cross without the crown of glory! 

Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 
O’er Sappho’s memory-haunted billow, 

But where the glistening night-dews weep 
On nameless sorrow’s churchyard pillow. 

O hearts that break and give no sign 
Save whitening lip and fading tresses, 

Till Death pours out his cordial wine 
Slow-dropped from Misery’s crushing presses,— 
If singing breath or echoing chord 
To every hidden pang were given, 

What endless melodies were poured, 

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven! 


Autocrat and Schoolmistress 161 

I hope that our landlady’s daughter 
is not so badly off, after all. That 
young man from another city, who 
made the remark which you remember 
about Boston State-house and Boston 
folks, has appeared at our table repeat¬ 
edly of late, and has seemed to me 
rather attentive to this young lady. 
Only last evening I saw him leaning 
over her while she was playing the 
accordion,—indeed, I undertook to join 
them in a song, and got as far as 
“Come rest in this boo-oo,” when, my 
voice getting tremulous, I turned off, 
as one steps out of a procession, and 
left the basso and soprano to finish it. 
I see no reason why this young woman 
should not be a very proper match for 
a man that laughs about Boston State- 
house. He can’t be very particular. 

The young fellow whom I have so 
often mentioned was a little free in his 
remarks, but very good-natured.— 


162 Love-Story Masterpieces 


Sorry to have you go,—he said.— 
Schoolma’am made a mistake not to 
wait for me. Haven’t taken anything 
but mournin’ fruit at breakfast since I 

heard of it.- Mourning fruit ,—said 

I,—what’s that?-Huckle-berries and 

blackberries,—said he;—couldn’t eat in 
colors, raspberries, currants, and such, 
after a solemn thing like this happen¬ 
ing.—The conceit seemed to please the 
young fellow. If you will believe it, 
when we came down to breakfast the 
next morning, he had carried it out as 
follows. You know those odious little 
“saas-plates” that figure so largely at 
boarding-houses, and especially at 
taverns, into which a strenuous attend¬ 
ant female trowels little dabs, sombre 
of tint and heterogeneous of composi¬ 
tion, which it makes you feel homesick 
to look at, and into which you poke the 
elastic coppery teaspoon with the air of 
a cat dipping her foot into a wash-tub, 


Autocrat and Schoolmistress 163 

—(not that I mean to say anything 
against them, for, when they are of 
tinted porcelain or starry many-faceted 
crystal, and hold clean bright berries, 
or pale virgin honey, or “lucent syrups 
tinct with cinnamon,” and the teaspoon 
is of white silver, with the Tower-stamp, 
solid, but not brutally heavy,—as peo¬ 
ple in the green stage of millionism 
will have them,—I can dally with their 
amber semi-fluids or glossy spherules 
without a shiver,)—you know these 
small, deep dishes, I say. When we 
came down the next morning, each of 
these (two only excepted) was covered 
with a broad leaf. On lifting this, each 
boarder found a small heap of solemn 
black huckle-berries. But one of those 
plates held red currants, and was cov¬ 
ered with a red rose; the other held 
white currants, and was covered with a 
white rose. There was a laugh at this 
at first, and then a short silence, and I 


164 Love-Story Masterpieces 

noticed that her lip trembled, and the 
old gentleman opposite was in trouble 
to get at his bandanna handkerchief. 

-“What was the use in waiting? 

We should be too late for Switzerland, 
that season, if we waited much longer.” 
—The hand I held trembled in mine, 
and the eyes fell meekly, as Esther 
bowed herself before the feet of 
Ahasuerus.—She had been reading that 
chapter, for she looked up,—if there 
was a film of moisture over her eyes, 
there was also the faintest shadow of 
a distant smile skirting her lips, but not 
enough to accent the dimples,—and 
said, in her pretty, still way,—“If it 
please the king, and if I have found 
favor in his sight, and the thing seem 
right before the king, and I be pleasing 
in his eyes”- 

I don’t remember what King Ahasue¬ 
rus did or said when Esther got just to 
that point of her soft, humble words,— 


Autocrat and Schoolmistress 165 

but I know what I did. That quotation 
from Scripture was cut short, anyhow. 
We came to a compromise on the great 
question, and the time was settled for 
the last day of summer. 

In the meantime, I talked on with 
our boarders, much as usual, as you 
may see by what I have reported. I 
must say, I was pleased with a certain 
tenderness they all showed toward us, 
after the first excitement of the news 
was over. It came out in trivial mat¬ 
ters,—but each one, in his or her way, 
manifested kindness. Our landlady, 
for instance, when we had chickens, 
sent the liver instead of the gizzard , 
with the wing, for the schoolmistress. 
This was not an accident; the two are 
never mistaken, though some landladies 
appear as if they did not know the 
difference. The whole of the company 
were even more respectfully attentive 
to my remarks than usual. There was 


166 Love-Story Masterpieces 

no idle punning, and very little winking 
on the part of that lively young gentle¬ 
man who, as the reader may remember, 
occasionally interposed some playful 
question or remark, which could hardly 
be considered relevant,—except when 
the least allusion was made to matri¬ 
mony, when he would look at the land¬ 
lady’s daughter, and wink with both 
sides of his face, until she would ask 
what he was pokin’ his fun at her for, 
and if he wasn’t ashamed of himself. 
In fact, they all behaved very hand¬ 
somely, so that I really felt sorry at the 
thought of leaving my boarding-house. 

I suppose you think, that, because I 
lived at a plain widow-woman’s plain 
table, I was, of course, more or less 
infirm in point of worldly fortune. You 
may not be sorry to learn, that, though 
not what great merchants call very rich, 
I was comfortable,— comfortable,— so 
that most of those moderate luxuries I 


Autocrat and Schoolmistress 167 

described in my verses on Contentment 
—most of them, I say—were within our 
reach, if we chose to have them. But 
I found out that the schoolmistress had 
a vein of charity about her, which had 
hitherto been worked on a small silver 
and copper basis, which made her think 
less, perhaps, of luxuries than even I 
did,—modestly as I have expressed my 
wishes. 

It is rather a pleasant thing to tell a 
poor young woman, whom one has 
contrived to win without showing his 
rent-roll, that she has found what the 
world values so highly, in following the 
lead of her affections. That was a 
luxury I was now ready for. 

I began abruptly:—Do you know that 
you are a rich young person? 

I know that I am very rich,—she 
said.—Heaven has given me more than 
I ever asked; for I had not thought 
love was ever meant for me. 


168 Love-Story Masterpieces 

It was a woman’s confession, and her 
voice fell to a whisper as it threaded 
the last words. 

I don’t mean that,—I said,—you 
blessed little saint and seraph!—if 
there’s an angel missing in the New 
Jerusalem, inquire for her at this 
boarding-house!—I don’t mean that; I 
mean that I—that is, you—am—are— 
confound it!—I mean that you’ll be 
what most people call a lady of fortune. 
—And I looked full in her eyes for the 
effect of the announcement. 

There wasn’t any. She said she was 
thankful that I had what would save 
me from drudgery, and that some other 
time I should tell her about it.—I never 
made a greater failure in an attempt to 
produce a sensation. 

So the last day of summer came. It 
was our choice to go to the church, but 
we had a kind of reception at the 
boarding-house. The presents were all 


Autocrat and Schoolmistress 169 

arranged, and among them none gave 
more pleasure than the modest tributes 
of our fellow-boarders,—for there was 
not one, I believe, who did not send 
something. The landlady would insist 
on making an elegant bride-cake, with 
her own hands; to which Master Ben¬ 
jamin Franklin wished to add certain 
embellishments out of his private 
funds,—namely, a Cupid in a mouse 
trap, done in white sugar, and two 
miniature flags with the stars and 
stripes, which had a very pleasing 
effect, I assure you. The landlady’s 
daughter sent a richly-bound copy of 
Tupper’s Poems. On a blank leaf was 
the following, written in a very delicate 
and careful hand: 

Presented to . . . by . . . 

On the eve ere her union in holy matrimony. 

May sunshine ever beam o’er her! 

Even the poor relative thought she 
must do something, and sent a copy of 
“The Whole Duty of Man,” bound in 


170 Love-Story Masterpieces 


very attractive variegated sheepskin, 
the edges nicely marbled. From the 
divinity-student came the loveliest Eng¬ 
lish edition of “Keble’s Christian Year/' 
I opened it, when it came, to the 
Fourth Sunday in Lent , and read that 
angelic poem, sweeter than anything I 
can remember since Xavier’s “My God, 
I love thee.”- 1 am not a Church¬ 

man,—I don’t believe in planting oaks 
in flower-pots,—but such a poem as 
“The Rose-bud” makes one’s heart a 
proselyte to the culture it grows from. 
Talk about it as much as you like,— 
one’s breeding shows itself nowhere 
more than in his religion. A man 
should be a gentleman in his hymns 
and prayers; the fondness for “scenes,” 
among vulgar saints, contrasts so 
meanly with that— 

' ‘God only and good angels look 
Behind the blissful scene,”— 

and that other,— 


A utocrat and Schoolmistress 171 

“He could not trust his melting soul 
But in his Maker’s sight,” 

that I hoped some of them will see this, 
and read the poem, and profit by it. 

My laughing and winking young 
friend undertook to procure and ar¬ 
range the flowers for the table, and did 
it with immense zeal. I never saw him 
look happier than when he came in, his 
hat saucily on one side, and a cheroot 
in his mouth, with a huge bunch of 
tea-roses, which he said were for 
“Madam.” 

One of the last things that came was 
an old square box, smelling of camphor, 
tied and sealed. It bore, in faded ink, 
the marks, “Calcutta, 1805.” On open¬ 
ing it, we found a white Cashmere 
shawl, with a very brief note from the 
dear old gentleman opposite, saying 
that he had kept this some years, think¬ 
ing he might want it, and many more, 
not knowing what to do with it,—that 


172 Love-Story Masterpieces 


he had never seen it unfolded since he 
was a young super-cargo,—and now, if 
she would spread it on her shoulders, it 
would make him feel young to look at 
it. 

Poor Bridget, or Biddy, our red¬ 
armed maid of all work! What must 
she do but buy a small copper breast-pin 
and put it under “Shoolma’am’s” plate 
that morning, at breakfast? And 
Schoolma’am would wear it,—though I 
made her cover it, as well as I could, 
with a tea-rose. 

It was my last breakfast as a boarder, 
and I could not leave them in utter 
silence. 

Good-bye,—I said,—my dear friends, 
one and all of you! I have been long 
with you, and I find it hard parting. 
I have to thank you for a thousand 
courtesies, and above all for the 
patience and indulgence with which you 
have listened to me when I have tried 


Autocrat and Schoolmistress 173 

to instruct or amuse you. My friend 
the Professor (who, as well as my 
friend the Poet, is unavoidably absent 
on this interesting occasion) has given 
me reason to suppose that he would 
occupy my empty chair about the first 
of January next. If he comes among 
you, be kind to him, as you have been 
to me. May the Lord bless you all!— 
And we shook hands all round the table. 

Half an hour afterwards the break¬ 
fast things and the cloth were gone. 
I looked up and down the length of the 
bare boards, over which I had so often 
uttered my sentiments and experiences 
—and Yes, I am a man, like another. 

All sadness vanished, as, in the 
midst of these old friends of mine, whom 
you know, and others a little more up 
in the world, perhaps, to whom I have 
not introduced you, I took the school¬ 
mistress before the altar from the 
hands of the old gentleman who used 


174 Love-Story Masterpieces 

to sit opposite, and who would insist 
on giving her away. 

And now we two are walking the long 
path in peace together. The “school¬ 
mistress” finds her skill in teaching 
called for again, without going abroad 
to seek little scholars. Those visions 
of mine have all come true. 






























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